Three Musketeers In Martinique
by Lothithil
Summary: MacGyver and his two best friends have a little adventure in the Caribbean. Inspired by the photograph that Mac found in the episode 'Dalton, Jack of Lies'. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1 Meet the Musketeers

Author's Note:  
While watching the episode "Jack of Lies", I just couldn't resist giving a go at trying to flesh out a little more of MacGyver's adventurous past. This is one humble attempt. It was inspired by that photograph that Mac found in Jack's strongbox, when he was looking for aerial charts.

Enjoy!  
-Lothithil

**Three Musketeers in Martinique**

Mac's voice-over:  
_I've always been the kind of guy that likes to move around. Some people might like to think that I've got a problem committing myself to a permanent home and a steady job-- my college career advisor wrote me off as a lost cause after I switched my major six times-- but I like to think I'm just too curious to settle down doing the same thing all the time. There's too much to do in this life, too many things to see in this world... and I aim to do and see as much of it as I can. _

_I'm glad that I don't have to do it alone, though. Having good friends along makes any experience more pleasant and exciting. Having Jack and Mike as those friends doubles the sensation! But even as much fun as they are-- wild Jack Dalton and willful and witty Mike Forester-- there are times when I prefer a little solitude. That's why I took the night watch, with no more company that the blanket of stars overhead. There's nothing so spectacular as the sky on a clear night at sea._

**Part One: The Pathos of Athos**

MacGyver opened his eyes. He lay unmoving in his hammock; gently swaying with the roll of the boat, wondering what it had been that had awakened him. The bright Caribbean sun pried fingers of light through the cabin door, which someone had left ajar. Mac could hear the slap of the water against the hull and the rustle of sails in a teasing breeze. Perhaps that was what had woke him up.

By the fall of the light, it seemed to be near midday. That didn't concern MacGyver too much, as he had stayed up through the night and well into morning. Mike had come up onto the foredeck just as the sun was touching the horizon with roses, and together they had watched it rise on a new day. Only then had Mac stumbled down into the cabin, stepping over the snoring lump that was Jack in order to roll into his bunk and fall instantly asleep.

Mac wanted to go back to sleep, but his body clock refused to let him. Sighing, he dropped his legs over either side of the hammock and grabbed the beam overhead, pulling himself up easily. He lowered himself slowly, stretching his arms, and then raised himself smoothly into a set of pull-ups. His shoulders ached a little from pulling ropes and wrestling with the sails the day before. He set himself on his feet, rotating his shoulders. He'd only had a few hours of sleep, but he felt great and ready for anything.

Out on the aft deck he found Jack, lounging next to the unstepped rudder. He lifted one eyelid when Mac kicked his foot.

"I thought you were on watch, Dalton. What if we were beset by pirates while you were sleeping on duty?"

"The only pirates in these waters are the guys who rented us this boat," Dalton retorted amiably. He reached into an ice-chest and extracted a bottle of beer. "Do you know that they only stocked us with a case of that lame local brew? For as much as we paid for this sloop, ya'd think that they could have given us some good American beer."

"If you wanted to drink American beer, you should have stayed in America. And you didn't answer my first question: Why aren't you up on the foredeck?"

"Mutiny." Jack nodded forward and shrugged. "I wouldn't go up there if I were you, Mac. She's in a mood today."

Mac laughed at the sour look on Jack's face. "You _didn't _ask her to marry you again?"

Jack scoffed, his left eye twitching as he said, "No way! I'm the bachelor's bachelor and that's never gonna change! Only suckers and mama's-boys go for that matrimonial nonsense."

Mac waved him off and walked forward, ducking under the boom. Sails were draped over the pole and billowing around, obscuring the foredeck completely. Grumbling at such an untidy array, Mac reached out and caught the mainsail, intending to tie it down neatly as it should be, when he caught a glimpse beyond of a body-- a very female body-- sunbathing. Blushing fiercely, he dropped the canvas and turned away.

"Morning, MacGyver."

Mac was intensely interested in a point on the horizon, far out to sea. "Ah! Good morning, Mike. I was just... er, I thought that the sails were... I didn't know you were..."

"It's all right... you can come up now. I'm decent." The mainsail was pushed aside as Mike came down-- Michelle Forester preferred for her friends to call her 'Mike'-- now wearing practical neoprene swimwear. She grinned at her friend. "You can wipe that silly grin off of your face, mister."

"Sorry." Mac couldn't stop smiling if he wanted to. He stepped up onto the foredeck. "Tired of tan lines? Or did you just decide to put Jack's and my self-control to the ultimate test?"

Mike laughed. "I'm not worried about you two. The only thing that Jack's interested in is finding a sunken treasure ship, and you're too shy. Besides, if I go back home with tan lines, nobody will believe that we were in the Caribbean."

"We'll have pictures taken," Mac said. Mike helped him tie up all the sails she had used to create some privacy. "You ready to do some diving today?"

"Sure I am." Mike nodded toward the pile of equipment lying on the deck; fins, breathing apparatus, and facemasks. "I've just been waiting around for you, lazybones. I thought you were going to sleep away the rest of your life!" Mike swatted at Mac playfully, smacking him on the shoulder with her palm. "I call first dive!"

"Hey!" Mac half-ducked away from the blow. "What about Jack? I thought this was his treasure hunt."

"He's already been down today," Mike said, sorting through the equipment.

Mac then noticed a tank and gear set aside, still damp from use. "He went down alone? Jack!" Mac turned angrily toward the rear of the boat. "Jack! You went diving alone? Are you nuts?"

"What?" Jack's head popped into view, peering over the boom. "I wasn't alone. I had my buddy with me." He held up a large knife. The sun gleamed off of the sharp edge.

Mac shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know what I'm gonna do with you, Jack. How careless can you be?"

"Don't you want to know what I found?" asked Jack, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

"You're lucky you didn't find a tiger shark," Mac retorted, reaching for his own gear. "Or a jelly-fish swarm. These waters are full of dangers."

Jack was unintimidated. "That's why I was really, really careful. Contrary to popular belief, I can exercise some degree of caution."

"Really?" Mac said, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Then how come I've never seen you exercise any?"

"It's not as much fun," Jack said, grinning wolfishly. "Quit being such a mother-hen and get into your gear, before your diving partner takes off without you!"

Mac shook his head and laughed. It was impossible to stay angry at Jack Dalton. "Are you coming in, too?"

"Later. I'll stay up here and watch your bubbles. Maybe I'll spot me a mermaid."

Mac noticed Jack watching Mike out of the corner of his eye and decided to be diplomatic and not comment on it. Instead, he said, "Keep an eye out for sharks."

"And what am I supposed to do if I see any... throw beer bottles at them?"

"Just don't drain all the bottles by your self." Mac shouldered on his tank and strapped his diving knife to his forearm. Adjusting his mask, he looked over at Mike. "You ready?"

Mike responded by placing her breathing regulator in her mouth and falling over backwards with a terrific splash.

Mac followed her into the shining waters.

**Part Two: Aramis, the Mission City Mermaid**

Mac's Voice-over:  
_When I was a kid, I loved the outdoors... camping, fishing, and hiking through the thick green woods and mountains of Northern Minnesota. I spent a lot of my time on the many lakes near where I grew up. Granted, I spent most of my time above them, with a pair of ice skates laced to my feet and a hockey stick in my hands. But not one of the ten thousand lakes of my native land was anything like the shimmering waters in which I found myself today. _

_The Caribbean sun filters down through shallow waters and lights up the reefs and coral beds in a colorful array of weird animal and plant life. I usually wear a wet suit when I go scuba diving, but here there seemed little need for such protection. The water got no deeper than twenty or so feet, and was usually a popular place for snorkeling and free diving. My friends and I prefer to use an air-tank so that we can stay down longer, really get to explore the reefs and swim with the schools of fish that come right up to us, unafraid and as curious as any human. It's like being in a whole new world, a silent world suspended between darkness and light. It's also a hostile world, where air is precious and water as deadly as it is beautiful. One could argue that it is that very danger that makes the experience an adventure._

MacGyver took a moment to orient himself. The hull of the boat was above, throwing a shadow down through the clear water. He saw Mike below, swimming downward with the fluid grace of mermaid. Mac dove after her, kicking his finned feet rapidly in a vain attempt to catch her.

She waited for him near the sandy bottom. As he came closer, Mac could see her eyes smiling behind her facemask. She signaled for him to swim beside her, and together they worked their way toward the gnarled tangle of dark green and blue that slowly resolved itself into the coral reef.

A swarm of flat yellow fish flashed away as they swam along. Mac lost himself it the beauty of the world around them, and was surprised when Mike turned toward him and pointed upward. Mac glanced at his oxygen level indicator and saw that it was nearly depleted. They had spent more than an hour swimming and exploring; it was time to surface.

Mike waited for Mac's nod of acknowledgment before she pushed off toward the surface. Sand swirled up from the seabed and something glimmered in the muck, catching Mac's attention. He bent down, sifting through the soil with his fingers. The disturbance caused clouds of silt to rise into the water, temporarily limiting Mac's vision. But what he thought might have been a silvery coin or a piece of mother-of-pearl turned out to be a metal ring securely fastened to something buried under the sand. He pulled on it, but it didn't move.

A knotted bulge of coral rose nearby. Mac worked carefully to avoid tearing his skin on the razor-sharp spires. After digging for a while he found the edges of what appeared to be a trap-door, right in the seabed. Puzzled, Mac placed one foot on the reef and yanked again on the handle, even though he was sure it would be futile.

To his surprise, it yielded. Too easily, sending him off-balance. His foot slipped into the hole that had been covered by a thick metal door, and that heavy door settled painfully down, pinning his leg. Struggling to free himself, Mac brushed against the coral.

Bubbles exploded around him, further stirring up the soil and clouding the water. Mac suddenly couldn't breathe. He grabbed his rebreather and found that the hose was severed, his precious air leaking out into the water.

Darkness was already beginning to edge into his vision as he pulled desperately to free himself. Fighting the urge to inhale, he groped at his belt for a diver's balloon, to signal his friends that he was in trouble and to help them find him. He paused before he triggered the inflatable, thinking fast. He bent down, carefully wedging the balloon into the crack where his leg was stuck, and pulled the pin.

The balloon inflated quickly, filling with CO2. The heavy lid shifted only slightly, but Mac took advantage of that, losing a few layers of skin but managing to pull himself free. The balloon streaked out of his fingers and upward toward the surface. Mac tried to follow but his limbs were heavy and stiff. He needed to breath and all the air was out of reach. He clawed his way upward, but he felt as if he were sinking instead, into increasingly darkening waters.

An arm encircled his chest and something was shoved into his mouth. Bubbles burst into his throat and nose, and he instinctively inhaled the sweet air. He took a breath, and another, and another, before the thing was taken from him.

The waters were still cloudy. Mac couldn't see, but he could feel someone loosening the tanks strapped to his back and his diving weights. Hands grabbed him under the arms and he was pulled upward, rising quickly above the cloudy waters that almost had become his grave. Then he could see.

Jack grinned at him, eyebrows wiggling behind his mask. He took the rebreather from his mouth and passed it to Mac, who gratefully took another healthy burst of air. They rose through the water together toward the dark belly of their boat. Mike's shadow rippled on the water above, watching for their return.

Mac offered the mouthpiece to Jack, but his friend shook his head, refusing. Mac took another breath, feeling strength return to his limbs in some measure. In spite of the stinging pain in his leg he kicked out, speeding their ascent.

Mike's silhouette moved rapidly above; she was clearly very agitated. Mac swam harder, but his lungs were still burning from holding his breath for so long, and his arms and legs were becoming quickly leaden. Jack held him strongly and pulled him upward, his own movements becoming increasingly urgent.

Mac didn't realize that they weren't alone in the water until he saw something large pass very close to them. Pure terror swept the cobwebs from his mind. There were sharks in the water around them!

Jack turned and leveled something at the marine predator, and suddenly the beast swam away, a cloudy red trail following it like smoke. Other swimming bodies arrowed toward the wounded beast. Mac felt himself pushed hard upward. The mouthpiece was torn from him as he rose swiftly, his head breaking the surface right beside the boat. He reached out and grabbed the gunwale, hoisting himself up as high as his adrenaline-filled body could manage.

Mike caught his arms and pulled with all her strength. Mac came up over the edge and they tumbled together into a pile on the deck. Water streaming from his nose and mouth, Mac heard Mike screaming, "-Jack? Where is he, MacGyver? Where's Jack?"

**Epilogue: Porthos, the Pirate King**

"Over here!" came the familiar voice of their friend Jack. He had surfaced at the stern of the boat, hauled himself out of the water and gone straight for the beer chest. He sat down and put up his feet, resting the spent harpoon gun across his legs. Using his teeth, he pried to cap off of the beer bottle and took a long drink. "Aaaah! This local stuff tastes better with a touch of salt, don't you know?"

Mike sighed sharply. "Jack! You scared the life out of me! And you!" She turned and swatted Mac between the shoulder blades. "You were supposed to be right behind me!"

Mac raised his arms as if to ward off her attack. "Sorry, Mike. Curiosity got the better of me. Thanks for sending down the cavalry!" Mike threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, laying his head on the top of her damp hair. "Thanks," he repeated earnestly. He felt her mumble against his bare chest.

Mac walked over and stood in front of Jack. "Thanks for saving my skin, man. I owe you one."

"What's left of your skin, you mean." Jack pointed at Mac's leg, streaked with blood. "I couldn't just leave you for shark-bait, after all."

Mike released Mac and went to kneel down beside Jack. She wrapped her arms around his neck and planting a big kiss on his face. "Yeah. Thanks, Jack."

Jack winked at Mac, his face flushing beet-red as Mike kissed him again. "Forget about it. What are friends for?"

Mac smiled as he watched his friends. _There's no adventure like the company of good friends,_ he thought to himself. He was smiling, even though a part of him was twinging mildly with jealousy. Friendship was too precious to throw away on feelings of insecurity. He dismissed his discomfort and pushed Jack's foot off of the beer chest.

"I got the last one, sorry old chum," Jack said, waving the empty bottle.

"I just want some ice, thanks anyway," Mac said dryly. He sat down and inspected the scratches on his leg, pressing a handful of cubes against his skin.

Mike abandoned Jack and fetched out a first aid kit. As she carefully cleaned and bandaged his wound for him, Mac glanced up to see a familiar expression of envy on Jack's face. He chuckled, at Jack and at himself.

"What's so funny?" asked Mike, as she finished taping his bandage in place.

"Nothing. Not a thing. Where are we going next?" Mac wiggled his toes as if to show he was good as new.

"Going?" Jack spluttered. "What about my sunken treasure? What did you find down there, anyway?"

"It was just an empty old airplane cargo compartment. I'm afraid that your Spanish treasure is nothing more than sunken junk, Jack. But look on the bright side..."

"What bright side?" Jack asked despondently, his dreams of wealth drained out of him.

"We'll all have a great tan when we get to Madrid in time to see the running of the bulls."

Jack's eyes got big as he thought it over. "Spanish ladies in black lace... orange-flavored liquor over ice... sounds great! When do we leave?"

Mike stood up straight and planted her fists on her hips. "Madrid? I thought we were going to Greece next?"

"It's on the way... let's draw up the anchor! We can get back to Martinique before sunset if we can catch some of this wind. Come on, Mac... get those sails up where they can do some good. Hustle, you two!"

"Aye, aye, Captain Bligh," Mac said dryly as Mike began to laugh.

"I'll give you a hand, Mac," she said as she worked beside him. "We need to get back to shore and find someone with a camera."


	2. Ch 2 Finders Keepers, Losers Seekers

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Of all the things that could be said of Jack Dalton, one must mention that he is an excellent pilot; in the air, on the land, or by lake, river, and sea. He might be a man of boisterous style, a man who takes outrageous chances… a man you're parents might warn you about! But Jack could also be precise, focused, and reserved when the circumstances demanded it. Granted, circumstances might have to demand it firmly, but Jack always comes through. It was one of the things that I liked about him. _

_That… and his tendency to save my life. Then again… if Jack happened to be around and I got into trouble, chances are it would be his fault!_

_x_

**_The Three Musketeers in Martinique continues with  
_****Finders Keepers, Losers Seekers**

The boat glided up to the dock and gently shouldered the bumpers. Mac leapt nimbly down onto the warped planks and caught the rope that Mike threw to him to secure the craft. He handled the ropes as if he had been born on a boat instead of an apple farm in Minnesota, deftly tying them to the guy-hooks that studded the pier.

"I'm dying for a nice warm shower and a meal that I don't have to cook myself," announced Mike as she began passing gear down to Mac. "Let's get all this stuff where it belongs, so we don't have to worry about it walking off when we're not looking."

"I can take the diving gear back to the place we rented it, if you want to help Jack off-load our stuff," Mac offered.

"Tell you what, my good friends," Jack said jovially, "why don't you, Mac, take the diving gear back, and you, Mike, take your lovely bones to the bungalow? I'll get the gear myself."

Mike looked at Mac, who looked right back at her. "What's this? Jack Dalton… volunteering to do work? Am I hearing this right? Maybe I've got water in my ears!"

"Maybe you've had too much sun," Mac said slyly, "and you've baked your brain!"

"Maybe I might change my mind if you two don't get off my back!" Jack laughed. "Go on now-- git!" He waved at them as if shooing away a swarm of annoying flies.

"Okay! Okay! Just let me grab my pack," Mike said. She swept up her light backpack that she used as luggage everywhere that she went. It contained everything of value that she needed. She then leaped down to the dock and hit the boards running. Mac grinned as he looked after her, and then turned around in time to see Jack watching her, too.

Dalton hurriedly turned his gaze elsewhere when he noticed Mac watching him.

"Are you sure that you don't need any help, Jack?" Mac asked, failing to conceal his grin.

"Quite." Jack said stiffly. He turned then to Mac and added, "And you, young man… you just be sure not to forget to get back the deposit we paid for that stuff."

Mac easily boosted the empty tanks up onto his shoulder. "I'm thinking they may want to keep it when they find out we left one of their tanks on the reef!" He grabbed up the rest of the gear in his other hand. "Don't worry about it, Jack. I'll take care of it."

Jack watched surreptitiously while his friend walk the length of the pier and for a few moments after he disappeared among the fish markets and souvenir shacks that grew up around the marina like barnacles. Only then did he move, dashing toward where their gear was stacked. He ignored the bags aside and knelt down next to the ice chest. Glancing around to see if he was being watched, he pried up the lid and looked inside, scooping the ice away from the contents hidden below.

A glint of gold shone up at him, and his eyes twinkled. "The early bird gets the gold," he murmured happily. "I wonder if I can persuade Mac and Mike to go to Spain by way of Zurich…"

ooooooo

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_The sunsets in the Caribbean seem to last forever. It was the darker side of dusk when I finally reached the rental store. It was a smallish place, kinda ramshackle-looking but it had offered the fairest rates and the gear was perfectly maintained. That's important when your trusting your life to the equipment. Anyway, there it was in the dying daylight, a single floodlight lit to illuminate the sign on the roof, _"Best Diving and Seafood"_, with a neat native mural painted around the borders. I liked it._

_The diving gear was starting to get heavier as the day caught up with me, and I slung my burdens down onto the porch with a gasp of relief. My scraped-up leg was stinging a little and my shoulders were aching, but I still had a good feeling about everything._

_That is… until I stepped through the door and found a whole bunch of really unfriendly people staring at me. It was almost enough to make me want to walk out again without saying a word._

_x_

When Mac went through the doorway to the shop, the top of his head gently bumped a wind-chime that had been strategically placed to alert the shop-owner when he had a client. The light, bell-like ringing sounded oddly discordant against the tension in the crowded little room.

The two darkly tanned and rugged men who were standing at the counter turned at the sound. The shop-owner, a short native fellow with brightly colored red, green, and yellow beads woven into his dreadlocks, offered Mac with a kind of desperate smile.

Mac took a slow step forward and raised one hand in a lazy wave. "Hi there… Ricky?" Mac hoped he had remembered the man's name correctly. "I brought back that equip—"

"I'm sorry, mon," Ricky said nervously, "the store is closed. Come back tomorrow."

Mac blinked. "But, we only paid for one day—"

One of the rough men came toward Mac menacingly. "You heard the guy, bucko. Take a hike."

Mac nodded as if in slow understanding, all the while his sharp eyes took in the details; the too-casual way that the men were standing-- concealing possible weapons--, the scars on their knuckles, the sweat that dampened their collars even though a cool breeze had been blowing in from the ocean. Mac figured that they were extortionists, leaning on the shop-keeper for protection money. A hot wave of anger burst in Mac's gut as he looked at poor Ricky, sweat running off of his face and his eyes showing white all around in his fear. It just wasn't right…

"Well," Mac said, backing up slowly toward the door, "I can see that you guys are busy… closing up and all that… I'll just come back tomorrow, shall I?" He paused by the door where an open crate of live crabs were scraping and clawing to get free. A part of Mac's mind laughed as he quickly conceived of a plan to liberate two of the incarcerated crustaceans. He reached into the crate and picked out the largest and most energetic pair. "Before I go, I was wondering if it would be okay for me to pick up dinner. How do you guys feel about seafood?"

Neither man expected to get an angry crab thrown into his face. One brought up his arms and tried to block his face with the baseball bat he had been holding behind him. He was too slow, and suddenly he was shrieking and clawing at the crab as it viciously pinched his face. The second man completely dropped his club—it looked as if it might one have been an oar-handle—and twisted around, trying to dislodge the crab that had latched onto his ear.

Mac didn't hesitate. He grabbed the netting that was hanging near the door and flung it over the heads of both men. Ricky recovered from his own shock and picked up the oar-handle, which he used to knock both men senseless.

"O, mon! You saved my life!" Ricky pointed at the men lying on the floor of his shop. "Them's some bad mon come up from the Big Islands, makin' troubles for all of Ricky's folk." He waved the club as he spoke, gesturing wildly. "They've been leanin' on all o' Ricky's friends along the marina, mon. But they the ones who're gonna be sorry soon. They gonna need protection from **this** Rasta!"

"Yeah… okay, Ricky." Mac made peaceful gestures toward Ricky until he calmed down a little. "You need any more help with these guys?"

"No, mon. These bums are for the police. My boys'll help me get them sorted. You gowan now and take my thanks. Oh, an' here," Ricky popped open the register and took out some money, offering it to Mac. "Take you money back, mon."

Mac raised his hands in refusal. "I couldn't… we lost one of your tanks on the reef. I should be paying you _more_ money for that…"

"Forget it, mon!" Ricky shook his head, making his beads go snapping and flying. "What these bums would have taken… I'm saving money, trust me! Take it. _Take it!_" Ricky thrust the bills into Mac's hands. "An' when you come back 'round these parts, you come and see Ricky the Rasta again!"

"Thanks, Ricky," Mac said, stuffing the cash in his pocket. "You're all right."

"I am now, mon," Ricky said, dialing a number on the telephone. "More'n these bums are gonna be soon!"


	3. Chapter 3 Good and Bad

**Mac in Martinique**

**Chapter Three, Good and Bad**

_It was a long walk back to the bungalow that my friends and I were sharing during our travel-holiday. It gave me plenty of time to work off my excess adrenaline after the incident at Ricky's shop. I wondered if I was going to have trouble again with those men. They hadn't looked particularly like the type who forgive-and-forget!_

_The sand beneath my feet was still radiating heat. Cool breezes from the water flowed in over the crashing surf, tugging at my hair and clothes. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if I should get it cut. It was longer now that I'd ever worn it before, and I kinda liked it. _

_Far out in the bay there were lights glittering on the water. Yachts of the rich and famous, no doubt. For the price of one of those expensive toys you could build yourself a house… a big house! Not that I **wanted** a house… not right now. I enjoy being able to move around, to not have to look back and worry about where I should be. I only had to think about where I am now… and where I might go next. I like that a lot!_

_There were yellow and blue lights under the trees and strains of laughter and music in the air; people enjoying paradise… oblivious to extortionists, pirates, or the troubles brewing back in the States. A part of my mind—the part I work really hard to try to ignore—wondered about the war in Viet Nam, and what I should be doing about it. But what can one man do? I swore that I'd never use a gun again… not even for Uncle Sam. But there must be something a man can do-- other than kill._

Mac strolled along the sand until he found the boardwalk that led to the bungalow. The shades were drawn but light flowed between the cracks, and as Mac drew near he saw a shadow of movement inside.

For a split second, Mac felt a wave of fear that those thugs had somehow found out where he was staying and that Mike and Jack were in danger. His heart began to beat a thousand miles an hour and he stumbled forward to see if his friends were all right, but then he heard the clear sound of Mike's voice, singing. Mac paused on the porch, sucking in long breaths to calm himself, before he opened the door.

"Mac!" Mike turned around as the door squeaked open. "You took forever! I've been waiting to go find some food… you hungry?"

"Always," Mac answered. "Where's Jack?" he asked absently, having noticed what Mike was wearing. Sleeveless and strapless, it showed off her tan without showing too much, the light blue color accenting her eyes. Her hair was piled up in a loose bun, curling tendrils escaping the glittering net of pins.

'_How do women do that?' _ Mac wondered, admiring the effect.

Mike noticed her friend staring, but she demurely kept her eyes lowered as if she hadn't, and she hoped the blush creeping across her cheeks would be hidden by her makeup. "I don't know… I heard him come in about half an hour ago, but he must have went right back out again. I was in the shower. Let's go."

"Give me a minute," Mac said. He was still dressed in swim trunks and a tank top. He dug into his suitcase and found something clean, then stepped behind the bamboo screen that was erected in front of the corner of the one-room house, shielding the primitive washroom and bath. The travel agency had described as 'quaint and rustic'.

"Hurry! I'm starving!" Mike insisted playfully.

"Aren't you going to give me time to take a shower, too?"

"You men," Mike complained, even as she settled down on a chair to comfortably wait for her friend, "you just take_ forever_ getting ready to go out!"

"I just want to be beautiful for you," Mac said sarcastically, tossing his sandy clothes over the divider onto the floor.

Mike sighed, then got up and gathered up the dirty clothes. "You men," she said again, under her breath.

xxx

"I don't want to be hearing what I'm hearing!" DuGaul slammed the telephone down, and then shoved it away from himself, violently. It struck the wall and fell to the floor, uttering a strangled ring like a protest at the rough treatment. "Those stinking, double-crossing pirates!"

"Now, now," the man behind the desk spoke in a gentle voice, a slight French accent making the word into a soothing lullaby, "remember your blood pressure, David. Sit down and tell me, what is the problem?"

DuGaul ignored the invitation to sit; he began to pace the length of the room. "The problem, Mr. St. Just," he said, his voice softer but still full of anger, "is that those stupid, stinking—" he paused as St. Just glared at him mildly, "the _agents_ that we have hired to bring in our product have not delivered. I have a detailed plan that relies on a _strict_ timetable, and we have clients who expect a prompt delivery! This is going to foul up everything!"

"Maybe… maybe not." St. Just leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, peering at DuGaul over his manicured nails. "Why did they fail to make the delivery?"

DuGaul finally sank into the chair next to the desk. "They claim that the payment was not in the agreed place."

"Is there any chance that it was not there? Perhaps one of our runners developed sticky fingers."

"No! I placed it there myself… yesterday afternoon! I wouldn't trust a runner with a payment in gold. If those salty rednecks would just accept US currency… or francs, we wouldn't have half the problems we do now! One sight of a pile of kuggerands and these local beach bums go nuts!"

"South African money is harder to trace," St. Just said. "That makes it difficult for us now, for we might never find whoever took our gold. Still, we must make the effort, no? Perhaps some tourist found the place?"

"It was well camouflaged… they would have had to have been looking specifically for it," DuGaul pounded the armrest of his chair in frustration. "I'll bet anything that those blasted pirates took the money and lied about not finding it! Or couldn't find it at all!"

"Go and look. And check with our man at the marina. Perhaps he noted some excessively happy tourists coming in from a dive on the reef." St. Just turned his chair so that his back was toward DuGaul.

DuGaul stood, recognizing this as a dismissal. Just as he reached the door, the soft voice added, "And if you don't find that gold, I _will_ have to have you killed, David."

DuGaul turned around, shocked. "Mr. St. Just! I—"

"You understand, David. As much as I worry about your health, I can't tolerate failure. As you said, we have clients waiting."


	4. Chapter 4 Unusual Suspects

**Mac in Martinique, ch 4  
Unusual Suspects**

Jack waited behind the wide bole of a palm tree until MacGyver and Mike left the bungalow. He watched as they walked down the path, arm in arm and laughing, until after they were out of sight and their voices were swallowed by the music pulsing out of the tropical air. Only then did he hurry toward the now-darkened bungalow, sneakers stepping softly across the warped boards of the porch. He went inside, working quickly and without light. Once finished, he crept out again, tip-toeing across the sand to disappear among the trees.

⌂

It was very late when Mike asked Mac to escort her back to the bungalow. They were both glowing from a long night of laughter and dancing, walking in the sand to ease their tired feet.

"Where do you think Jack wandered off to?" Mike asked. "I thought he'd catch up with us at the restaurant."

"You know Jack," Mac answered with a shrug. "He has his own agenda… even when he's on vacation. Maybe he met up with that girl he met the other day when we were surf-skiing."

"Maybe," Mike responded, "But it's not like him to miss a party." They walked on in silence for a while. "You're not worried about him, are you?"

Mac blinked, "No, not really. I mean, with Jack you should _always_ worry a little… but he can take care of himself. Usually."

"I know, but…" Mike's voice trailed off. Her eyes looked beyond the sea and sky, focusing on a far-away thought. "It's just… he's been acting kind of strange, don't you think?"

Mac frowned, taking a few moments to reflect. "I dunno, Mike. I haven't seen him since we returned from the reef." Mac laughed a little. "He saved my life out there, you know."

"I know… but before that, he… he was…" Mike sighed and turned to face Mac directly. "He came up at first light, saying he was going down to the reef. I told him he shouldn't dive alone, but he made me promise not to tell you. Doesn't that seem unusually strange?"

"Yeah," Mac answered, "Yeah... it does."

"Why would he want to keep it a secret? I mean, he must have known that you'd find out he went down."

"Maybe it's not what he did that he wants to keep secret… but what he found." Mac tapped his lip thoughtfully. "Did you see him bring up anything?"

"He took a game-bag down with him, but I didn't notice if there was anything inside it when he came up." Mike searched her memory. "That's funny… I don't remember seeing the bag, now that I'm thinking about it. I wonder if he lost it underwater and just didn't mention it?"

"I wonder." Mac didn't look like he agreed, though. The crease in his forehead had deepened with his frown. He took Mike's elbow and they continued walking toward their quarters. "Let's find the bad boy and ask. You're right… there's something strange going on here."

⌂

David DuGaul stood on the pier and looked out toward the sea. The sun was already lightening the sky eastward, and he had had a long and busy night. The reef where he had concealed a small fortune in South African gold lay somewhere behind his left shoulder, but there was no need to sail out there or even to look in that direction. DuGaul really had put the gold there himself. Someone had taken it, and therefore someone had to have used a boat to get there.

He had visited each of the many marinas that circled the small island, looking for information on who might have gone out to the reef on the day the gold had disappeared. Because of the influence of his employer, DuGaul had no problem with cooperation from the residents, even though he had pulled most of them from their beds to question, but there wasn't much that they could tell him about who went where. Tourists do not often give an itinerary of the places they planned to sail. Some had asked about good places to scuba dive, and the Shelf Reef was a popular answer.

It was because of the popularity of the place that DuGaul used it as a drop-off and pick-up point. Traffic in that area was not questioned, and the drug enforcement officers scoured the waters by both water and air. They would not stop a pleasure boat to search without a tangible reason. There were just too many and the DEA were spread thin in these waters.

DuGaul had just finished questioning the last possibility. The weathered old native seaman had given him vague answers, even when threatened with violence. The man acted as if he didn't care one way or the other, and he had no fear of DuGaul or of Mr. St. Just.

"There's nowt ye can do to these sea-logged old bones tha't'will make me answer any different," the man had said, liberally cursing DuGaul in a variety of different languages. "Tourist's tourists-- and I don' tell 'em where to go an' I don' ask where they been! Phah!"

"You senile old fool," DuGaul said under his breath, as he turned and left the man, still spitting and grumbling. Normally, he would have had the man beaten for is insolence, but he didn't have time to take the pleasure at the moment. He made a mental note to send one of his men back to teach the old bastard a lesson… but right now, he had more important things to do.

Tourists needed more than boats to look at the reefs… they also needed equipment. DuGaul had decided to concentrate on the idea that the thief was a tourist. If it were a local, the sudden appearance of krugerrands on the island would quickly come back to his ears.

DuGaul had intended to return to the Big Island and recruit some of Mr. St. Just's men to assist him, but as he was returning to his boat two men came running up to him. He recognized them. The politically correct description of them would be 'extortionists', but DuGaul though of them as 'brainless muscle-sacks'.

Both men were out of breath from running, mussed and bloody. One had a deep cut in one of his ears that had stained his t-shirt crimson. The other man had angry red marks on his nose and cheeks. They walked right up to him and began speaking at the same time.

"Mr. DuGaul!"

"We got trouble, sir!"

DuGaul waited while they continued to chatter, trying to talk over the other man. He finally held up a hand and whistled loudly. Both men fell silent. "Just you." DuGaul pointed at the one with the cut on his ear. "Talk."

"We got trouble, sir! Me and Chink, we were down on Sands Avenue, shakin' down the diver's shacks for Mr. St. Just…"

"You mean, collecting payments on their insurance," DuGaul amended calmly.

"Yeah… we were shakin' 'em down for their payments," injected Chink, "me and Jones."

"Shut up, Chink!" Jones elbowed his companion in the gut. "I'm talkin'."

"So talk some more," DuGaul encouraged him.

"Yeah… so, there we were at Ricky's, and some tall nosy geek tourist comes in and ruins everything."

"He hit me with a crab," Chink said miserably. Jones elbowed him again, harder.

"Who was this man?" DuGaul asked sharply. "Where is he now?"

"We dunno…" Chink began to say, but doubled over when Jones hit him again.

"We dunno, sir. We got blind-sided, and we didn't get up in time to see where he went. We had to split quick, 'cause the rasta called the cops on us."

DuGaul stepped forward until he was about six inches from Jones's face. "Find him," he breathed in a soft, dangerous voice. "Look very hard… as if your life depended upon it."


	5. Chapter 5 Playing Rough

**Mac in Marintique, ch 5  
****Playing Rough**

Jack wasn't home when they arrived. Both Mike and Mac were exhausted by their long day. They agreed that they'd be more likely to solve the puzzle with clear heads and daylight, so Mike took the bunk and Mac took the hammock on the porch, leaving the couch for Jack should he wander in during the wee hours.

Swaying in the tropical breeze, sleep came quickly to the tired Minnesota boy. His dreams kept him away from true rest, though, filled as they were with vague fears and urgency. MacGyver woke when the sun lifted high enough over the horizon to break apart the wall of clouds and touch his face with fingers of warmth. He didn't want to open his eyes, because he knew once he did, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He buried his nose under his blanket and played opossum.

The planks that made up the deck of the porch were very weathered and warped. They creaked audibly as someone walked across them, even though-- Mac could tell just by the sounds-- the person was moving very carefully.

When they were very close, standing right over Mac where he lay strung in the saddle of a hammock, Mac made his move. In one smooth motion, he flung the blanket over the head of the intruder and rolled out of the sling, taking the man's legs out from under him. The guy went down in a tumble and Mac somersaulted, coming up with his fist drawn back to strike.

"Argh! Mac… wait!" The voice was muffled by the blanket, but Mac heard him in time to pull back his punch.

"Jack? What're you doing… sneaking up on a guy like that? I almost creamed you… I'm still tempted to!" Mac pulled the blanket off of his friend, who sat on the floor-boards rubbing his head where he'd bumped it against the wall.

"Consider us 'even'," Jack retorted. "I may have a concussion, thank-you-very-much!"

"Sorry." Mac offered him a hand to help him up.

Jack readily accepted, clasping Mac's elbow and allowing him to pull him smoothly to his feet. "Forget it. Let's go." Jack turned to head into the bungalow.

"Go? What are you talking about, Jack?" Mac asked, following him.

"We got boat to catch, Mac-me-boyo. Remember? Spain? Barcelona? Orange liquor and black lace? I made all the arrangements last night… we're leaving with the tide."

"Jack! But we… "

"I got us packed up and ready last night! It's all done. All we have to do is get to the marina before 9am..."

"You know, I wasn't entirely serious about leaving immediately..."

"Why not? We've been here for weeks…"

"Three days, Jack."

"… Seems like more. We gotta keep moving… we're young and restless! And I got us a great deal with the captain of a small freighter. Booked us all passage in first-rate cabins. We're good to go! Let's get Mike and book it out of here…" Jack had been walking headlong through the doorway but he came up quick, so quick that Mac bumped into him from behind.

"Jack! Uh… oh." Mac stopped when he saw Mike standing in the midst of the room, her luggage open and scattered around the room. "What happened?"

"We've been robbed!" Jack announced. His voice was almost shrill.

Mike stared at him coldly. "No, we haven't been robbed." Her eyes flashed and both Jack and Mac felt as if the temperature in the room had dropped about twenty degrees. "In fact, it looks as though someone has made… _a deposit_."

Inside the leather bag she was holding, relieved of the once-clean and folded contents, glinted something yellow and shiny. "Have either of you seen a stray leprechaun looking for his lost pot o' gold?"

⌂

"Jack… did you think I wouldn't _notice_ that my bag was suddenly thirty pounds heavier?"

Jack offered a lame smile. "What kind of gentleman would I be to allow a lady to carry her own bag?"

Mike punched Jack in the arm. "I always carry my own bag… you know that!"

Mac pulled open his own leather-bound satchel. It, too, seemed unusually heavy. "Hey… Santa Claus visited me, too!" He cocked his head toward Jack. "I guess I've been a really, really good boy this year… it's only July!" He tossed the bag into Jack's hands.

Jack looked down, his worried frown smoothing into a look of wonder as he gazed at the gold. Mac slapped his shoulder to nudge him out of his trance.

"Okay… spill, Jack. Where did this come from, and how did it get into our luggage," Mac glanced over at Mike with an _'as if we didn't know already'_ look on his face.

Jack opened his mouth to answer, his eye beginning to twitch even before he spoke.

"And don't lie to us, Jack!" Mike added sharply.

Jack sighed, closing the bag and hugging it to his chest. "I found it when I was diving. I swear… I _just_ **found** it!"

"And so you _just_ **took** it!" Mac closed his eyes and massaged his forehead as if pained.

"It's pirate treasure, Mac-- free for the taking! Finder's; keepers!"

"Jack…" Mac tugged the bag open and grabbed one of the coins. He examined it closely, turning it over in his long fingers. "I doubt that the old Spanish Conquistadors were dealing in South African currency dated…_ nineteen_ seventy-seven!" He let the piece fall back among its brethren with a clink. "Those are krugerrands, Jack-- **not** pieces-of-eight!"

"But… I found them," Jack said again, weakly.

"I think we should turn them over to the authorities," Mike said, her fists propped on her hips. "They're probably dirty… from drug dealers or white slavers or something awful like that."

"We can't give them to the cops!" Jack protested. "You know who these local uniforms are… they might be crooked… or they might even be 'in on it'!"

"I vote we bury it in the sand, or toss it out into the ocean where you found them," Mac said. "Come on, Jack… we'd never get them through Security or Customs."

"That's why we take a boat! I got it all planned out… it's brilliant, Mac! Mike! It can't miss! We sail to Spain… we could hitchhike to Switzerland… no questions asked… we'll be rich!"

"We'll never make it past Port Authority in Spain… they're gonna look through our luggage, you know."

"How're they gonna prove that they don't belong to us?" Jack insisted petulantly. In a more reasonable, calmer tone, he continued, "This is my chance… and I'm gonna take it. If you guys don't want to help, then I'll do it alone." He looked at his friends, his eyes pleading. "Please, guys. Please come with me. This is something we could share!" He took two pieces of the gold and handed one each to his friends. "Just look at them. Feel them. They're real… and they are ours."

Mike's eyes grew a little dreamy as she hefted the weighty coin in her hand. "Well… if we reported finding these coins… and the owners proved to be criminals… we'd get to keep them, fair and clean… wouldn't we?"

"Mike?" Mac glanced between the two of them, wondering if they had both lost their minds. He snapped his fingers in front of their faces as if trying to wake them up. Mike blinked at him, rubbing the coin against her lower lip.

"What, Mac? What?" Jack said quickly, trying to keep Mike on his side. "You can give your share to charity if you don't want to keep it… come on!"

Mac stared at his friends, feeling his walls slowly beginning to crumble. "This is insane," he finally said, raising his hands in defeat.

"Great!" Jack looked as if he were on the verge of doing a jig. He rushed forward to hug Mac, who straight-armed him off. "Thanks, Mac! You're not going to regret this! I swear…" Jack bounced on his toes, then whisked Mike up in a hug and whirled her around.

"I already do," Mac said glumly, fighting to keep a smile off of his face watching his friends' antics. "So what's your plan? I **know** you've got one…"


	6. Chapter 6 Reconnaissance

**Mac in Martinique, ch 6  
Reconnaissance**

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_Okay, I know what you're thinking; what am I doing going along with this ridiculous scheme? The answer is simple. It was _Jack._ He's always had a certain special gift for talking people into things. Even people who should know better… including me. **Especially me.** He's been doing things like this to me since we were kids; he knows how to dare me. The situations are always ludicrous and Jack's plans always sound crazy, but he's got the heart and the guts to try anything… and I was just thick-headed enough to try anything on a dare. _

I'm not a kid anymore and I know the type of trouble that we could be getting into now. I really didn't believe that we were going to be able to go anywhere with that gold, but trying to talk Jack out of it now would get me exactly nowhere. I knew how stubborn he could be. He'd try to smuggle it out on his own if I refused to help, and he'd probably land himself in big trouble and drag Mike down with him. I decided to stick it out and try to make reason prevail.

Yes… I **have** been accused before of being overly optimistic…

The plan was foolproof… or so Jack stated repeatedly. There was a ship sailing for Spain today. All that was needed was to be on the pier—with their weighted luggage—when it was time to disembark. Jack reassured his friends that the captain was a man who they could trust, and that the ship was sturdy and sea-worthy.

To their credit, Mac and Mike remained a little skeptical.

"I want to see this ship, Jack."

"We're going to be seeing it for at least ten days during the voyage, Mac!"

"I want to see it before I sail on it. Just call me crazy, but I remember the airline that you booked for us when we flew to Singapore."

"Can you say 'flying garbage truck'?" Mike quipped.

"Mike! We got there safe and sound, didn't we?"

Mike scowled. "We survived… but I was so air-sick by the time we got there that I almost didn't want to!"

"That was a totally different situation than this... you'll see."

"Yes, I will," Mac cut in. "I'll see right now. And meet this captain. Where's the ship berthed?"

"All right, Mac… if that's what you really want," Jack said mildly. "It's in the same marina where we were yesterday. Pier number six."

"Good. Let's go." Mac turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"But you won't be able to meet the captain," Jack added quickly. "He isn't there right now."

Mac stopped in his tracks, arms spread and hands braced against the doorjamb. He hung his head and wished silently for patience. He had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could ask calmly, "How much time have we got before we're scheduled to depart?"

"Well, that depends…" Jack said, slowly, "It depends on how long it takes the captain to load his cargo."

Mac glanced toward Jack in time to see his left eyelid flicker slightly. "Mike… keep him here until I get back."

"Yes, Mac," Mike said. She stepped lightly across the room and sat down on their stacked luggage, carefully repacked with layers of gold.

"I should go with you…" Jack began, but Mac cut him off.

"No, Jack. Sit. Stay!" Mac pointed, and Jack sat down obediently. "You can't lie to me if you're not with me. If I'm going along with this crazy scheme… it's going to be on my terms. I'm going to check your story out." He yanked the door open and left.

Jack shook his head sadly and looked up at Mike. "There's just no trust left in the world."

Mike gave him a lop-sided grin. "And who's fault is that, Jack?"

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_In spite of my words, as I walked away from the bungalow toward the marina, I had an sneaking suspicion that I had played right into whatever plan Jack had had in mind all the time…_

⌂

**Mac's Voice continues: **  
_To my surprise, the ship was actually fairly nice. She needed a wash-down and a little paint, but her hull above the waterline was sound and her rigging well-maintained and fit. She had a dependable, lived-in look about her. Nobody answered when I stood on the dock and hailed the ship. _

I walked up and down the pier, but I could find no one who would admit to belonging to the crew of this vessel. The less I learned, the more curious I got. Finally, I stepped aboard and looked around. Inside, the ship was reasonably clean, and the galley well-stocked. The hold was sealed and the padlock was immune to my trusty S.A.K. so I couldn't peek inside and see the cargo. I left it for the moment and kept looking.

In the control cabin, I found a stack of maritime charts and some very new navigational equipment. It reminded me of the time I'd spent in college working on a marine research vessel. I'd gotten a crash-course in steering and navigation when the captain fell ill and we got caught in a squall… but that's another story.

Not wanting to get caught snooping around, I left the ship quickly, but I didn't return to the bungalow. Something was still bothering me about the situation. I wanted to learn more about where that gold might have come from. I needed a friend on the island that I could talk to… someone who might know some of the things that the travel agents left out of the brochures. Then I remembered Ricky the Rastafarian.

Mac stepped inside the diving shop, ducking so that he didn't hit the wind-chimes with his head. Instead, he raised his arm and tickled the tiny silver discs with his fingers, setting of the chaotic music. Ricky's head appeared instantly from behind a pile of life-vests.

"Oh… it's you, mon! You crazy, coming back here!"

Mac was nonplussed. "You said to come back anytime…"

"Yes, yes… and you welcome to do so, but it is risky you comin' here today! Them bad mon that you fought… they lookin' for you!"

"I thought that you were going to turn them over to the police."

Ricky hurried past Mac, sticking his head out of the door to see if anyone was outside. He pulled the door shut and turned around the sign so that it read 'Closed—There's Always Tomorrow!' "They gave me the slip before my boys could come and take 'em in. Look, mon, you must take yourself out of this place! They come back anytime soon!"

"Uh huh." Mac's nagging doubts were hardening into paranoia. "Ricky, what can you tell me about this?" Mac brought out the single gold coin that he had palmed from Jack's treasure.

Ricky's eyes got wide and round. He grabbed Mac's hand and thrust it down before anyone might see it. He backed away as if afraid to stand too close to Mac while he was holding such a tainted item, his voice becoming a ragged whisper, "Where d'ya find such a thing, my friend?"

"You recognize this?" Mac asked, slipping it back into his pocket. "I need to know."

"I seen such once before, mon. Only one place a body can get such those… from a mon called DuGaul."

"Who's DuGaul?"

"He's the one who does all the dirty work for the Big Mon on the island. Them bums who you helped me with yesterday… they work for him."

"And he pays them with these?" Mac asked.

"No, mon… he only uses the foreign gold to pay the bastards who bring in his guns and drugs for him. Nobody will accept that stuff 'round these parts. We can't exchange it… only melt it down or use it for sinkers!"

"That's smart of him," mused MacGyver. "It keeps the smugglers off the island, so that there will be nothing to lead back to him on his home ground, and if any coins turn up on the island and he hears about it…"

"And he would, mon… he's got eyes and ears everywhere!"

"You said this guy works for the 'Big Man'… who is he?"

"I don' know his name, mon. DuGaul is bad enough… I don't want to know who's pulling his strings!"

"Well thanks, Ricky." Mac offered his hand.

Ricky shook his hand, and then slapped his palm and snapped his fingers. "Any time, mon."

Mac smiled at him. "My name is 'Mac', you know."

Ricky laughed. "I know! But with my accent… if I said that, I'd make it sound like 'mock'! You be cool, mon, and keep you head down!"

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_After my talk with Ricky the Rastafarian, I was beginning to have second doubts about Jack's 'flawless plan'… and third and fourth doubts, as well! _

But there was new blood on the waters of the Caribbean these days. Ricky didn't know the name of the man behind it all, but he could tell me the name of the man who was running bossing around the thugs who had been leaning on him—a man named DuGaul. I had no proof that he was involved with this gold, but I had a feeling…

Ricky couldn't tell me anything about where I might find this guy, so I left his store intent on returning to the bungalow. I had to try again to talk Jack out of this.

Mac jogged down the boardwalk, back toward the bungalow. It was about twenty-minutes away at an easy walk, but if he hurried and took a shortcut or two, he thought that he might make it in ten.

Turning down a narrow alley, Mac was forced to weave his way through baskets of refuge and perilously stacked crates. There was discarded waste lumber lying around, rusting nails protruding and promising tetanus shots.

He watched his feet carefully and, therefore, did not see the man lurking inside a doorway. After Mac walked past him, Chink stepped out and swung the baseball bat he had been holding. It struck Mac across the back with an ugly sound. Mac groaned and went down to his hands and knees, fighting the blackness that suddenly filled his vision.

**Mac's Voice-over:**  
_As the blackness began to win, it occurred to me that it was not Jack's plan that was fool-proof… but that_ **I** _was a_ fool _who was_ plan-**proof!**


	7. Chapter 7 Keelhaul

**Mac in Martinique, ch 7  
****Keelhaul**

"It's been more than an hour already! He's probably waiting for us at the ship. We should go down there," Jack exclaimed, waving his hands in the air.

"Mac said to stay here," Mike replied uncertainly. Sitting on a pile of gold made her more nervous than she cared to admit. "Jack, stop pacing… you're driving me crazy."

Jack stopped by the window and looked out through a crack in the shutters. He had closed the door and windows of the bungalow right after MacGyver had left, to give himself and Mike more of a feeling of security. It became hot very quickly, but neither friend complained. Mike fanned her self with a straw hat. Jack paced and stared outside, glancing at his watch frequently.

Five minutes passed. Jack turned slowly from the window. Calmly, he picked up his duffle bag and looped it over his shoulder. He grabbed Mac's satchel and reached for Mike's.

"What are you doing, Jack?" Mike snatched her pack out of Jack's hands. "You heard what Mac said—"

"I think that we should go, Mike," Jack said intensely. His voice was soft, but urgent. "You know those feelings… those instincts… that Mac is always talking about?"

"Yes," Mike answered uncertainly. She was beginning to feel it, too.

"Well, I'm having some. And they're saying it's time to leave right now. By the back door!"

Mike gave Jack a curious look. "But, this place doesn't have a back door…"

"In a few moments, it will…" Jack said, nodding toward the bamboo-slat covered window.

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Ah… the Caribbean! It's the perfect place to get away from the hassles and hustles of life. Or so I thought before someone whacked me over the head with a large, blunt object. _

_If this is what vacations are like, I think I need to spend more time at home!_

Mac didn't need to see to tell he was on some kind of boat. He could sense many things; the subtle movements of the surface upon which he laid; he felt the warmth of the sun on his face; he could hear the lap of water against the hull, timbers creaking as they shifted in the wake of the currant; the air was rich with the smell of brine and a sweet pungent odor that he couldn't immediately identify. He really didn't want to open his eyes, because he was sure that it would make his head hurt more.

Mac reached up massage his sore neck, only to discover that his hands were tightly tied in front of him. He tried to flex his fingers and wondered if they were actually moving; they felt thick and numb.

Finally, Mac opened his eyes. He squeezed them shut immediately. The sun was high overhead and blindingly bright. He squinted upward, but saw nothing more than pure cerulean blue without a cloud in sight. The sun was a small sharp spear, piercing the sky and skewering his eyeballs.

Rolling onto his side, Mac pushed himself up on one elbow. When this didn't hurt more than he could bear, he raised himself to his knees and then sat back on his heels. There was a knot of fire in the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades.

At first, he could see nothing but the bright splotches before his eyes swimming with little black specks. He soon became aware of a man sitting on the aft railing. He was watching Mac and smoking a cigar.

"Welcome aboard _The Achilles_," the man said. His voice bore the hint of a French-Island accent.

"Thanks." Mac was too sore to keep sarcasm completely out of his voice. He blinked and raised his hands to rub his neck. "Are you the one who 'invited' me?"

The man smiled. He knocked the ash off the tip of the cigar so that it fell over the rail. "That would be one of my men. I instructed Chink here and his partner to bring you to me so I could talk to you."

"I make more sense when I'm conscious."

"I didn't specify what condition I wanted you in… I guess they were still a little annoyed about your interference." Mac noticed another man on the yacht. He seemed vaguely familiar behind his stony expressions. "They do not take kindly to people who do not know how to mind their own business. Neither do I."

Mac recognized Chink as one of the two thugs that he had tangled with at Ricky's diving shop. He ignored his glowering stare and looked toward his boss. "So what do you want to talk about, Mr. DuGaul?"

A look of quick surprise crossed his before DuGaul could hide it. He had not been prepared for a tourist to know who he was. "There must be more to you than what meets the eye. Your identification card reveals your name to me. You will tell me now who you work for."

"I don't work for anyone," Mac said. "I'm on vacation."

DuGaul regarded Mac over his cigar. "I don't think so."

Mac shrugged. DuGaul nodded slightly. Chink rose from their deckchairs and approached the bound man. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pulled Mac's head back. Smiling with grim pleasure, he raised a callused hand and smacked Mac across the face.

Mac's head snapped to one side and he grunted. Chink laughed triumphantly, but Mac merely shook his head and blinked. Chink frowned. He hit Mac with another back-handed blow. When that failed to give him the proper satisfaction, he knuckled up his fist and struck Mac in the mouth.

Mac's head rocked back, but he didn't fall. A trickle of blood appeared from a split on his lip. He touched his mouth gently with his fingers and gave Chink a defiant glare. "You come on pretty strong when someone can't fight back. Why don't you untie my hands and try that again?"

DuGaul laughed. "As amusing as I believe that could be, now is not the time for such games. I want to know who you work for, Mr. MacGyver. More to the point, I wish to know where the rest of these are." DuGaul held up the gold coin that Mac had been carrying in his pocket. "My other man is already on his way to check out where you have been staying. When he finds the rest of the gold and reports back to me, you're going to go for a little swim." DuGaul shaded his eyes and looked out toward the ocean.

Mac could see that the yacht they were surrounded by water, though land was not far away. If he could escape, he felt that he could easily swim to shore, even with his hands tied. What worried him was the possibility of sharks. The reefs were close, and though the predators were usually rare this close to shore, the smell of blood would draw them for miles.

Mac knew he had no choice but to try. Trying to reason with these criminals was useless. DuGaul was standing with his back toward Mac and Chink. Mac waited until Chink had drawn back another fist and suddenly sprang to his feet. Lowering his head, he drove into the man's midsection, bowling them both over the rail and into the water.

_  
I had thought about taking DuGaul overboard, but he carried himself with the air of a man comfortable on the water. I was taking my chances that Mr. Knuckles might not be as good a swimmer._

Both Mac and Chink sank into the water, but Chink struggled immediately to the surface. Mac could hear his muffled shouts, the water churned as he thrashed and panicked. Mac swam as best as he could toward the boat, surfacing on the other side. Treading water, he groped at his pockets.

_  
Damn! They took my pocket knife as well!_

Mac took a deep breath and let himself sink, swimming toward the back of the yacht. The propellers would be sharp enough to cut the fishing wire that they had used to tie his hands, but if the motor was started while he was so close, he might be killed. Hoping that DuGaul valued Chink's services enough to take the time to help him, Mac worked quickly at sawing his hands together against the blades. The wire parted after only a few passes.

Mac used the remainder of his air taking the time to tangle the fishing wire and his shirt around the propeller. Then he surfaced and began swimming strongly toward the shore. He heard the motor of the yacht rumble to life behind him. With a dreadful mechanical gurgle, the engine choked and died suddenly.

Mac turned to look, bobbing in the water. He could see DuGaul up on the control deck, cursing and shaking his fist in the air. Chink was clinging to the side of the yacht, trying to draw himself out of the water.

Mac grinned and threw a salute at the furious DuGaul. Then he turned and swam like the devil.


	8. Chapter 8 Aphradonis

**Mac in Martinique, ch 8  
****Aphradonis**

Daphne lay back on her beach towel, trying to pretend that she was enjoying herself.

The sun was warm, and the sea was just as magically blue as it had been in the travel brochure, but so far this vacation wasn't everything it had been cracked up to be. Daphne and her husband traveled to a different tropical location every year, but she never had very much fun at any of them.

Fred, her husband, was lying next to her openly goggling the other women on the beach. Daphne told herself she shouldn't feel annoyed… but she did. She was just as pretty in her bikini as any of _them_, but none of the other men on the beach dared to look her way—let alone smile at her or say 'hello'—not with Fred the Goggling Gargoyle sitting next to her!

A volley-ball game was being started up the beach. Fred suddenly leaped to his feet—spraying Daphne with sand—and ran to join in, not bothering to ask if his wife might want to come along.

Daphne stood up and dusted herself off in disgust. She shook out her towel, thinking that she would storm off in a huff and go back to the hotel, when she spotted something moving far out in the water. She shaded her eyes for a better look. Yes, something was definitely swimming toward the beach, moving smoothly through the water.

It was a man—a man like Daphne had never seen before. He rose up from the sea before her like a Greek fantasy, foam swirling around his hands, dark hair plastered to his head, wearing only a pair of jeans that the water seemed to be determined to pull off of his body.

Daphne's breath caught in her throat as the man came out of the water. He was tall and lean, and she hardly noticed that he was barely able to walk. He didn't appear to be aware that he'd come ashore on a crowded beach; he walked with his head down, nearly stumbling into Daphne where she stood, clutching her towel. He caught himself from falling, sprinkling her with water droplets. He looked down into her upturned, surprised face—and he smiled.

MacGyver raised his hand as if to take the woman's arm; the way she was swaying, he wondered if she were going to fall over herself. His fingers barely brushed her shrinking skin. With a polite "Excuse me, ma'am," he stepped carefully around her, walking through the group of curious women who were watching him intently.

Daphne turned and watched him going, marveling at the way the sand clung to his jeans… and the way the water dripped from his hair and ran in streaks down his wide, tanned shoulders… He hadn't looked at or spoken to any of the other women—just her! She watched him until he was completely out of sight.

'_That decides it!'_ Daphne thought to herself as she fanned her flaming cheeks with a straw hat, '_Next year, I'm coming to Martinique again… alone!'_

⌂

MacGyver didn't feel like a beautiful woman's tropical sun-dream… he felt like about forty miles of rough country road. But in spite of his aches and how tired he was, he forced himself to jog through the sand, doggedly heading toward the bungalow where he hoped that Jack and Mike were still waiting safely for his return. He felt conspicuous without a shirt, but DuGaul and his goon had taken everything in his pockets, so he couldn't afford to buy something from the shops that bordered the beaches.

Mac got lucky. He was walking past the breakwater when he noticed someone had draped their clothes over the stone jetty. Muttering an apology to the owner, he helped himself to the colorful Hawaiian-style shirt. It was far too small… he couldn't pull it closed to button it… but at least he didn't feel naked anymore.

His head still ached, and his lungs were burning from the long swim, but Mac was afraid he was already too late. Visions of Mike and Jack being taken by the same ruthless men that had abducted him kept him slogging along, even when he began to stumble. He slowed down just long enough to catch his second wind, and then he hurried on.

After what seemed an eternity, the bungalow appeared ahead. Mac's momentum took him up the steps in one leap, through the open door with the next, and face-to-face with Chink's partner-in-crime, Jones.

Jones had begun to search the room, having only just arrived to find it abandoned. He wasn't prepared for Mac's precipitous entrance. It took a few seconds for him to recognize the bedraggled man who stood dripping in the doorway.

Mac momentum carried him on and both men went down in a tumble. Mac tried to roll to his feet and managed to get to his knees. He had a handful of Jones' shirt, and he cocked back his fist, ready to put everything he had left behind the punch.

To his surprise, Jones covered his face with both of his arms, shouting, "Wait! Please!"

Startled, Mac stopped, but he didn't release his grip on Jones. "Where's…" Mac started to ask where his friends were, but he remembered that Jones might not know about them yet. He changed his question to "Where's your buddy? How'd you find out about this place?" He kept his grip on Jones' collar, realizing that he'd probably fall over if he let him go.

Jones wasn't acting like the strong-arm thug that Mac though he was. "Look… you're MacGyver, right? This isn't what it looks like... I'm going to need you to trust me."

"Trust you?" Mac felt the strength ebbing from his limbs. "Trust you how?"

"I work for the D.E.A. I'm under cover… deep under cover! I can't explain more now… you've got to get out of here. DuGaul knows about this place and he's coming here."

Mac looked shook his head, doubting that he could run any further. All the aches and pains he'd suffered since the morning were catching up to him.

Jones took hold of Mac's hands. "Your friends left before I got here. I was going to try to get them into protective custody, but they were gone already. I don't think DuGaul knows about them, but he may find out at any time!"

Mac looked at the cuts on Jones' face and realized he's assaulted a Federal agent with a crustacean. He decided suddenly to trust him. He released his hold on Jones. "I need to find my friends."

Jones nodded toward the broken window at the rear of the bungalow. "I think that they went into the jungle. If they did, then they will be safe for as long as they stay there; but as soon as you can, you should contact the police. I'm going to do what I can to throw them off your trail."

"Wait a minute... if you know DuGaul is coming here, why don't you arrest him?" Mac leaned back against the wall, breathing deeply.

"'Cause I'm trying to get his boss," Jones whispered tightly. "DuGaul is second in command to the Head Honcho of the Caribbean drug trafficking. It's my job to get close enough to find out who he is. Now will you get the hell out of here?"

Mac began moving toward the broken window, but he caught sight of a black car racing up toward the bungalow. He could clearly see Chink and DuGaul through the windshield of the vehicle… and it was clear that they could see him, too. Mac turned to Jones and said, "Time to go."

Jones hung his head and said sadly. "Too late. I'm really sorry about this, but," he raised his oar-handle and deftly clubbed Mac right at the base of the neck, just hard enough to knock him out. "I got a big fish to catch, and you just got nominated to be the bait."


	9. Chapter 9 Game Face

**Mac in Martinique, ch 9  
****Game Face**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Jones had actually been rather gentle with his oar-handle; I came-to only a few minutes after he thumped me. It didn't do anything to improve my headache. _

_However, lying on the floor playing 'possum did put me in an excellent position to eavesdrop on a very interesting conversation:_

"Good work, Jones. It looked as if he was about to run when you nailed him."

"I was trying to find out what he did with your gold, Mr. DuGaul, but I couldn't get him to talk. I searched all over this place, but there's no trace of it."

"Maybe he's hidden it," Chink muttered. He prodded Mac's leg with the toe of his boot. "Lemme wake him up and ask him."

"He may have hidden the gold," DuGaul said thoughtfully, "or he might have had accomplices who carried it away. Did you see any evidence of other people before you tossed this place?"

Mac held his breath until he heard Jones respond "No, sir. There was no luggage or clothes… he was getting ready to cut and run."

"I'll find out where it is!" Chink announced. He grabbed Mac by the lapels of his too-small Hawaiian shirt. Mac could not control his reflex; he flinched as the burly Chink drew back his fist.

"Wait!" The word burst from Jones before he could stop himself.

"Why?" asked Chink, fist still cocked. Mac's face was growing flushed as he hung from Chink's other hand; the shirt was making a colorful noose around his throat.

"Yes… why?" DuGaul looked at Jones curiously. "You've had your chance at payback. Chink here owes this guy for a swimming lesson."

"Because he won't tell us anything if he's got a broken jaw, Mr. DuGaul. I'm just as mad about this," Jones indicated his crab-induced wounds, "but I'm more interested in recovering your property."

DuGaul smiled, and Jones held his breath until DuGaul nodded and said, "Good point." He sat down on the corner of the bed and nodded at Chink to release Mac.

Chink frowned but he let go. Mac fell back to the floor and enjoyed a few deep, unhindered breaths. When the fuzziness faded from the edges of his vision, he sat up and leaned against a wall, massaging his neck gingerly.

DuGaul watched Mac closely, waiting for the moment when the man would begin to sweat and beg. Mac merely returned his stare and said nothing. "You know what I want. Why don't you just tell me where my gold is, before I let Chink ask you… _his_ way."

"Because I don't talk to peons," Mac stated in a cold voice, rubbing the knot at the base of his neck while shooting Jones a dark look.

DuGaul merely returned his stare, stunned to be spoken to in such a fashion. Chink growled and knotted up one of his fists so that it looked like a small ham.

"What did he call us? Nobody pees on me!"

"Chink! Down!" DuGaul ordered sharply, like the master of a disobedient dog. He gave Jones a look indefinable look, and then said to MacGyver, "What are you talking about? These men take orders from me… I am in charge."

"Yeah… whatever," Mac said in a sarcastic voice. "If you were in charge of this operation, you wouldn't be anywhere near me or these punks. You'd have yourself a slick middleman to take all the chances for you—and the heat, should anything… you know… happen." And Mac smiled slowly and coldly at DuGaul.

'_My God',_ thought DuGaul, '_he knows about St. Just!'_

"Just who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Mac climbed to his feet, trying to look more confident that he felt. If this bluff didn't work, he doubted he'd have another chance to escape. He pushed his fears aside and worked his angle, trying to remember everything he learned from watching old westerns with his dad.

"Do you honestly think that I would steal anything from _him_?" Mac didn't have a real clue to the bosses name—or gender, for that matter, but he guessed that these weren't the type of men to take orders from a woman—besides Jones's hurried mention of a man who gave orders to these crooks; he was going on guess-work, desperate. "I didn't take the payoff, DuGaul… I was hired to find who did. Seems that _somebody_," Mac allowed a long, meaningful pause to stretch out, "doesn't trust you."

"You're lying," DuGaul insisted. "You're a tourist! He's never mentioned you…"

A chill filled the room as DuGaul realized that he had just mentioned—out loud and for the first time, his shadowy employer.

Mac tugged on his Hawaiian shirt and smiled ruefully, "Good disguise, huh? You never doubted it for a second, did you? Well, that's the reason why I get paid the big bucks," Mac gently prodded his bruised jaw, "among other things."

Jones watched the entire exchange in a state of numb disbelief and growing exhilaration. _If this lunatic managed to this off…he might actually find out who was behind the entire operation!_

"What's he talking about, Mr. DuGaul?" Chink asked. His Neanderthal brow was furrowed like a fresh-plowed field.

"Never mind," DuGaul snapped. "We'll settle this right now! If you're so familiar with 'the Man', why don't you say his name?"

"Why don't you?" Mac countered. "I'll tell you _why_ you don't… becausehe would cut up and use as bait anyone who so much as breathed his name aloud. Don't be fooled by the tan-lines, bud—I'm no tourist."

DuGaul ground his teeth. "If I bring you in front of him and you turn out to be a fraud, I will kill you myself."

"And if you don't take me in and I turn out to be a fraud…I imagine that they'll be looking for a new boss around here." Mac winked at Jones. "Got your résumé updated?"

MacGyver kept on his game face, cool as a cucumber, while inside his mind he was racing. He was sending out silent "thank you's" to his grandpa Harry's old friend, that artful dodger Bill Cody, who had taught him the fine art of playing poker, as well as waves of gratitude toward his old high school drama coach. While he was communing, he took the time to nurse a hope that Jack and Mike might get wind of his predicament and lend a hand. He could use some of Jack's outrageous luck right about now.

⌂

"Damn the luck!" Jack cursed, tearing at yet another tough vine that refused to let them pass through the tangle of jungle where he'd managed to lose Mike and himself. "Where's that Boy Scout Mac when you need him?"

"Weren't you a Scout, too, Jack?" Mike asked as she struggled along. The trees seemed to close behind them as they passed along the path that Jack was carving. Mike was torn between feelings of safety and claustrophobia, but she swallowed her anxiety and put her trust in Jack.

"Well… yeah! But I was, er… concentrating on other things… you know, like leadership skills and, ah… social consciousness and, um…"

"So what you're saying is that you were busy playing dice while Mac was earning his badges."

"Um…pretty much, yeah."


	10. Chapter 10 Hacienda

**Mac in Martinique, ch 10  
****Hacienda**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_It was a brittle ride back toward the marina. DuGaul was afraid to be too rough **or** too nice to me; we sat in the back of his car and said very little. He had a small silver-plated pistol that he held across his lap, pointed vaguely in my direction. I tried to ignore it, but it was a little like trying to ignore a scorpion crawling on your arm. _

"You seem a little nervous, MacGyver," DuGaul observed.

"I don't like guns," Mac said, looking out the window. There were a couple of girls walking down toward the beach, but Mac wasn't really seeing at them.

_Where were Mike and Jack?_

"Guns are a part of the business." This was DuGaul's dry response.

"Yeah, well… I'm used to being on the **other** side of them," Mac retorted. "You can keep that toy if it makes you feel safer, but I'd prefer it if you'd not point it at me. If your driver hits a pothole, you may wind up having some explaining to do."

"Did you hear that, Jones?" DuGaul said, "Mr. MacGyver doesn't trust your driving." He didn't put the gun away but he did swing the muzzle downward. If the thing went off, the bullet would either hit Mac in the leg or strike the back of the driver's seat.

The road took them past the beach where Mac had come ashore. A tangle in the traffic slowed them down to the speed of a crawl. Through the open window, Mac saw the woman he had nearly stumbled into after his swim from DuGaul's boat. She was standing near the volleyball pit, arguing with a man. As the car slowly coasted past, it looked to Mac as if she were getting the better of the debate.

Jones was preparing to turn onto the marina road when DuGaul brusquely said, "Turn left toward the airfield." The muzzle of the gun moved back toward MacGyver as DuGaul frowned at him. "Our boat is temporarily disabled, thanks to you. We'll take the chopper."

Mac gave DuGaul an annoyed look; he really hated guns. "Yeah… well, _you_ owe _me_ a new shirt."

Listening to the two men talking in the backseat, Jones thought that his hands were going to freeze to the wheel of the car. _'At last!'_ his heart began to thrum with excitement. _'He's taking us to his boss!'_ His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He saw DuGaul threatening MacGyver with the gun, and MacGyver returning his stare with patient disinterest.

Next to Jones in the front seat, Chink shivered. He had not had time to change out of his clothes after he went overboard, and though they were drying slowly, the man was obviously uncomfortable.

Jones wanted desperately to accompany DuGaul to the Big Bosses base of operations, but somehow manage things so that Chink would be left out of it. He could have his people pick the man up later, but having him along was dangerous. Jones knew that Chink would turn a gun on him just as quickly as he would on any tourist or native that any man paying his paycheck happened to choose.

"Chink—you look like crap!" Jones said, hoping that DuGaul was listening. "Who does your dry cleaning… Jacques Cousteau?"

"Yer not funny, Jones," Chink growled, brushing ineffectuality at his salt-encrusted garments. "I nearly drowned—thanks to **_that_** one!" he jerked his thumb toward Mac.

DuGaul leaned forward, scrutinizing Chink's ruined clothes. "Great," he said under his breath, "we're headed to see the Man and he looks like a hobo."

Mac could tell from the sound of DuGaul's voice that he was getting nervous. The little black hole of the tiny silver gun stared at Mac like a shark's eye, unblinking and unfeeling.

They arrived at the airfield and circled around to the helicopter pads where a small white and blue craft was waiting, blades rotating idly in the Caribbean wind.

"Where's the pilot?" DuGaul demanded. Sweat was beginning to dampen the edges of his carefully combed hair. "Keep an eye on this joker." He handed his gun to Chink and got out of the car, slamming the door shut. He walked purposefully toward a nearby hanger.

Chink pointed the gun in Mac's general direction, resting it on the back of the seat and covered his hand with his soggy sleeve so that the airfield personnel could not see. He wasn't looking at Mac, though; he was staring at the helicopter. He didn't look very happy.

"I hate flyin'," he said glumly. "I never signed on to do no flyin'!"

"I figured you'd prefer it to swimmin'," Jones cracked, his eyes meeting Mac's in the rearview mirror; he flicked a wink at Mac that Chink wouldn't see.

"I hate flyin'," Chink repeated glumly.

"What's wrong with flying," Jones asked, "aside from that sick, dizzy feeling you get?"

Chink's face took on a shade of green.

"Yeah," Mac added, "Flying is great… except when you hit those pockets of air—and the whole cabin just seems to drop like a brick. I hate that."

Chink shivered again and swallowed convulsively before he half-heartedly muttered "Shut up, you." Mac wondered if the man was going to lose his lunch before they even got inside the helicopter.

⌂

"Jack, let's stop," Mike said wearily. "I think we're going in circles."

"We're not," Jack answered firmly. "Look." He pointed skyward.

Mike looked, shading her eyes with her hand. A small airplane soared through the small gap in the trees overhead. It was very low; Mike could clearly see the identification numbers painted in blue on the side of the craft. "So what?"

"So… it's going _that_ _way_," Jack indicated the direction in which they had been heading. "Just like the other two I've seen in the last half hour."

"How do you know they're not flying in circles?" Mike asked wearily. She shifted her pack to a more comfortable position. "We've been stumbling around in this jungle for two hours, and frankly I've seen so many damn plants that I'm beginning to regret my botany degree. And my backpack weighs a ton."

"Mine, too." Jack lowered his duffle bag to the ground. Mike could hear the sound of metal clinking beneath the jumble of Jack's belongings. "Anyway, I' hoping that there is an airport in that direction." Jack wiped the sweat from his face. His hand came away smeared with green stuff. "Yuck! What is this stuff?"

Mike looked at Jack and couldn't suppress her laughter. "You look like Tarzan after he grabbed the wrong vine!" Jack tried to touch Mike's nose with one of his greened fingers. "Hey! Keep you're slime to yourself, mister! I've got enough of my own."

Jack grinned and turned to continue his struggle to part the thick growth so that they both could pass. He had gone only a few feet when Mike stopped him.

"Look, Jack!" The roof of a large white building had appeared above the tops of the trees and bushes ahead of them.

"Civilization at last!" Together, they fought their way through the last tangle of bushes until they came out suddenly onto a cool, smooth lawn. The jungle was trimmed back sharply, and beyond the straight-edge sharp cutting the grass stretched over an acre of land, rising smoothly upward toward a great white house.

As they stood looking about in surprise, there came a buzzing, ticking sound from the ground below their feet. Without further warning, water began spraying upward from the sprinkler system in long streaming arcs. Against their skin, flushed with tropical heat and exertion, the water felt ice-cold.

Mike let out a small shriek that turned into a laugh as the chilly water doused her hair and clothing. Jack grabbed her hand and together they ran through the sprinklers toward the house, ineffectually ducking more jets of water. Sweat and sap were rinsed from their faces and hands, but their stained clothing got soaked before they managed to reach the buildings. Stepping from the manicured lawn onto a tiled patio, both friends stopped to catch their breath, laughing like children playing on the lawn.

"Well," said Mike, wringing water from her long hair, "that was bracing!"

"Better than a cup of coffee to wake you up, that for sure and for certain," Jack replied. He turned away and shook his head, shedding water like a dog. Mike raised her hands to shield her face from the spray, and noticed that they were not alone.

"Jack," Mike whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "Company." The water from the lawn sprinklers had soaked her blouse; she stepped behind her friend, conscious of the fact that her undergarments were visible beneath the now-transparent fabric.

"Good day," said the man. He was sitting in a chair under an awning; he rose and came toward them, a sweating glass of some iced drink in his hand. Skin deeply tanned and dressed all in white as he was, Jack thought that he looked like a crazy combination between George Hamilton and Mr. Roark of 'Fantasy Island'. "Welcome to the Manor."

"Hiya!" said Jack tossed up a friendly wave. "We didn't mean to barge in on you, but we kinda got turned around in the trees." He swung his soggy dufflebag behind him, where it settled on the tiles with an audible 'chink'. Jack winced, but turned the expression into one of wistful hope. "Could we possibly use your tele-…"

Jack's voice trailed off as three men appeared, each holding machine guns that were pointed at him and Mike in a very business-like fashion.

"… -phone?" Jack ended lamely, raising his hands in the universal gesture of harmlessness.

The man in white merely stood still and let his men corral the two strangers. He sipped his drink while one man roughly pawed Jack's clothing, searching for weapons. Another man picked up the bag that Jack had tried to hide behind his legs. When he felt the unusual weight of it, he brought it to the man in white and shook it. The coins in the bottom chimed musically… damningly.

The man in white smiled. He casually handed his glass to one of his men and opened the bag, tossing aside the things within. He withdrew a handful of coins and held them out as if to admire the sparkle of the sunlight on the mellow gold.

"Welcome indeed to the Manor," the man repeated as his men took firm hold on Mike and Jack. They didn't search Mike for weapons, but the state of her clothing made it apparent that she wasn't carrying a gun of any kind. "I am Edmund St. Just." His voice was rich with a French accent, and when he pronounced his name, it sounded like 'Juiced'. He spoke as one who expected his suggestions to be carried out like orders. "You will accompany my men into the house."

Jack forgot about his precious gold and twisted out of the hold one man had put on his arm. He took Mike's arm and faced down the man holding her without showing an ounce of fear for the deadly guns that were pointed at him. He looked like a bulldog snarling at a Doberman pincer. "Neither of us have forgotten how to walk, bud. Hands off the lady!"

St. Just nodded, and the man released Mike. He watched as the two tourists walk obediently toward the house, bracketed by armed men. He took especial interest in watching the movements of the woman, who was graceful even in her disarray. He watched until they disappeared through the double French doors.

St. Just smiled and flipped one of the gold coins into the air and caught it deftly. Just another wonderful day in the tropics!


	11. Chapter 11 Musketeers Divided

**Mac in Martinique, ch 11  
****Musketeers Divided**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_I'm not normally a malicious person… but I have to confess that I was having just a little bit of fun teasing Chink. His face was changing from green to grey to fish-belly white. A great part of my pleasure was the fact that the muzzle of the gun was no longer pointing at me, but was now angled down at the floorboards between Chink's feet as he hung his head and gulped to keep his lunch down. _

_Jones began to give Chink a detailed and colorful description of a recent airline disaster, while I kept one eye on the hanger that DuGaul had gone into. I watched until he came out again, followed by a man shrugging into a flight jacket. This man hurried toward the helicopter while DuGaul headed toward us._

_A moment later, another man came running out of the hanger, shouting and waving an object in one hand. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but DuGaul turned and the man handed him what turned out to be a cordless telephone handset. It looked like one of those radios you see in the old war films, but not quite as bulky; a brick with a long antenna poked up from the top. _

_It reminded me of something a buddy of mine had said to me not too long ago. He was one of the eggheads that I'd hung around with in Computer Science while I was at Westport University. One late night after a halfhearted study session right before our Finals, he had made a prediction that one day in the not-so-far-future, everyone would be able to carry a telephone with them wherever they went. I of course had to make a joke about the dangers of tangled cords. I remember that we laughed about it for the rest of the night. It made me smile again now._

_My amusement drained away as I watched DuGaul begin to smile himself, at whatever was being said into his ear. Anything that pleased DuGaul was not likely to be good news for me._

Mac heard a disagreeable noise coming from the front seat. The car door pop open and Chink dashed off into the bushes, one hand over his mouth.

Jones picked up the gun his partner in crime had dropped, and removed the ammunition clip. He also ejected the bullet from the chamber. Both of these things he pocketed, then reached into another pocket and removed a different clip—Mac could see that there was no ammunition in it—and loaded it with a slap.

"Insurance," he said, offering Mac a brief smile.

**Mac's Voice-over continues:  
**_I suppose I should have been comforted by this, but my Dad had once told me that any gun—loaded or unloaded—is dangerous… and nothing in my experience so far has ever suggested that he might have been wrong._

DuGaul was still smiling when he got back to the car, but when he spoke his voice held no trace of amusement. He indicated to Jones to get out of the car.

"Where is…?" his question was answered by the retching sounds still issuing from the bushes. DuGaul raised his eyebrows and Jones shrugged.

"He's got a thing about flying, sir."

DuGaul sighed and held out his hand for his gun. Jones placed the weapon in his hand coolly. DuGaul then seized the door handle and motioned Mac out. "Let's go."

For one long second, Jones was afraid that DuGaul was going to take MacGyver and leave him behind.

Jones had come very far in his undercover investigation, and now that it was known which airport and helicopter DuGaul used, it was possible that the flight could be traced and he could discover who DuGaul's mysterious boss was. But he wouldn't be able to help MacGyver if he wasn't along for the ride, and he was sure that the man would be killed as soon as they discovered who **_he_** was.

For all of his hardness and determination, Jones did not want MacGyver to die; he rather liked the fellow, even though he'd only known him briefly. He was quick-thinking and clever, and he had not betrayed Jones in an attempt to save his own life. Jones also felt somewhat responsible for involving him as he had.

Jones' fears were allayed with DuGaul's next statement.

"Chink! Stay with the car, you miserable excuse for a man! Jones, you stick to this guy like white on rice; do you hear me?" He gave Mac's shoulder a shove with the muzzle of his gun. "Get into the 'chopper. We're going for a ride."

⌂

Jack pushed and shoved on the sill of the window with all his might, but it wouldn't budge. He'd already tried to break the glass, but he had no tool other than his own hands to try with, and his knuckles and palms were bruised and torn from repeated efforts. This room was perfect as a prison; there was no furniture and no fixtures other than a small grate for ventilation. The only door to the room was metal and solidly locked. There wasn't even a knob or keyhole on the inside. The window was a small rectangular aperture high in the wall, showing a stretch of lawn and part of the garden spreading away at eye-level. There seemed no way out… but that didn't stop Jack Dalton from trying to find one.

If it had been just him alone, locked away in some gangster's basement storage room, Jack might have sat down and waited, prepared to buffalo his way out of things as he had managed to do all of his life. As much trouble as his tongue had gotten him into, it had gotten him out of even more.

But Jack wasn't alone. Mike was here—somewhere—and he felt that it was his job to protect her.

They'd separated Jack from Mike once they had entered the huge house. Jack had tried to hold onto her, but he got a thump in the gut for his efforts and they had taken Mike away from him. The thought of her, alone with those goons and that bastard in white, made Jack nearly manic enough to try to gnaw his way through the walls.

'_They'd better not touch her,'_ he thought darkly, heaving fruitlessly once more on the window. _'They'd just had better not.'_

⌂

Mike sat on a cushioned chair in a room that looked like it could have been used by Napoleon Bonaparte himself. There was a telephone on the desk within easy reach, but she didn't move toward it. Who would she call? She didn't even know where she was exactly.

After being separated from Jack, Mike had been escorted to a suite that was decorated in early 18th century French fashion, right down to the huge fresco on one wall; an ancient map that showed rough drawings of the scattered islands of the Caribbean. North America was an unfinished, vague outline that bordered the left-hand side of the painting. Europe and Africa were sketched along the right-hand side in vague strokes except for the France and her colonies, which were wrought in exquisite detail. The Atlantic Ocean splashed down the center in cerulean blue, criss-crossed with old shipping routes and little pictures of sea monsters. The rest of the walls were paneled in dark wood. The furnishings were rich and well maintained, the wood gleaming with oils and the silver and crystal shining. Not a mote of dust was allowed to settle. It felt like a museum.

She had been left in this room with a single man standing by the door, cradling his machine gun in his arms like baby. When Mike looked at him, he seemed to be studying the patterns on the carpet, but when she looked away she could feel his eyes on her.

She experienced a moment of self-consciousness; her clothes were clinging to her, still damp from the water-sprinklers. She dismissed the feeling immediately as useless. Summoning calm, she walked around the room, investigating exits and possible things to use as weapons before she settled herself in a chair. She wanted to comb out her damp hair, but she resisted. She wanted to pace out her anxiety, but she refrained. She sat quietly, hands in her lap, and waited.

As calm and quiet as she looked, her mind raced and hummed. She wondered where they had taken Jack and how she would find him again. She wondered where Mac could be and hoped that he was safe. She knew that he'd come and find them—Mac had never failed to find them yet—but this time, she was worried. She wasn't even sure **_she_** knew where they were, not after having been lost in the jungle for so long. But they were still on the same island… still on Martinique… so there was a chance…

Armed guards and arrogant men in fancy white suits added up to trouble in Mike's mind… more than just trespassing and illegal detention. Mike was sure that Jack's gold coins had come from this man, and that though he had gotten them back he was unlikely to just let them go their own way. Was he a drug smuggler? A corrupt political official? A mercenary commander? From what she saw in this room, she wondered if he was some kind of throwback pirate, lost in the glorious past of the French Colonial Expansion. '_He must not be too popular with the natives of this island,'_ Mike's thought. '_That's probably why the armed guards and isolation.'_

Before she could further explore this idea, the man at the door stiffened, grasping his gun as if preparing for inspection. A second later, St. Just walked into the room. He paused by the guard and gave a little nod of his head. The man immediately left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

That feeling of insecurity returned stronger than ever as St. Just stood in front of her and stared openly at her. She refused to show how disconcerted she was, returning his gaze evenly. Mike put her trust in her friends. They would come for her; she believed this.

And should something happen before they appeared, she would put her trust in the karate lessons she had taken since she was five years old.


	12. Chapter 12 Over and Undercover

**Mac in Martinique, ch 12  
****Over and Undercover**

Chink never made it out of the bushes. While DuGaul and Jones are escorting MacGyver to the waiting helicopter, the indisposed gunman was lying on his stomach with his arms tied behind his back. A man known to the locals and tourists as Ricky the Rasta was kneeling beside him, watching the scene on the tarmac carefully through the bushes. As the men boarded the craft and the noise of the rotor rose, he lifted a radio to his lips and began to speak.

'Ricky' watched the helicopter lift off and drift through the air towards the south, out over the open sea. He solemnly hoped that the DEA man knew what he was doing. If he didn't, Ricky was sure that he would never see him alive again…or MacGyver!

The man named Chink struggled against the handcuffs that were pinning his arms and tried to spit out the wad of cloth that Ricky had shoved in his mouth. Ricky earnestly hoped that the guy was through vomiting; he didn't want him to choke to death. He kept an eye on the man as he gave instructions on the radio. Spotters all over the island and posted around the waters of Martinique were instructed to be on the lookout for the blue and white helicopter. _'When I get word of where they were headed,'_ he thought grimly, _'that will signal the end of the dress rehearsal, and then… it's __**showtime!**__'_

"Don't worry, old fellow," Ricky said aloud to Chink. His Rastafarian accent gone, he now spoke with a vague European accent, as would one that was well-traveled might sound. "There'll be a car around shortly to pick you up. You're going to become the special guest of Her Majesty's Secret Service—until such a time as we hand you over to the American authorities, anyway. Your part in this little drama is now over. Exit stage left and all that…"

⌂

"I don't think I've ever had the privilege of entertaining such a charming trespasser before," St. Just said to Mike. He took her hand and kissed the back of her knuckles, pouring on the charm.

This tactic might have worked for St. Just, with other women in the past, but with Mike Forrester nothing could have been less successful. She pulled her hand back sharply, as if she had touched something unhygienic. "Where is my friend?" she demanded.

"He has come to no harm," St. Just said smoothly. He stepped back a bit, appraising Mike as she stood in the sunlight filtering through the French windows. "With such a face as yours, my dear, you should wear your hair up. _Vous seriez le plus elegant!"_

Mike tried to ignore him, but she couldn't control the involuntary flush that crept over her cheeks. Piqued at herself for not being in better command of her emotions, she clenched her teeth and tossed her head. "The only time I'd ever dress up for you would be at your funeral!" The words sounded silly and Machiavellian, but she felt better for saying them. "I demand that you take me to Jack and release us immediately!"

"I do not think that you really mean that, my dear. This room is much more comfortable… and a woman of your grace belongs in a place like this." He gestured around at his treasures, silver and brass, mahogany and crystal. "Tell me, what do you think of my little collection?"

"What do I think?" Mike looked around with a sour eye. "It's very… nice. Except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"I think you might improve your _feng shui_ if you rearranged the furniture a bit. Here… let me help…" Mike grasped one of the finely carved, high-back chairs and swung it violently. St. Just was so surprised that he barely managed to step back far enough to avoid being struck. But Mike wasn't through. She swung the chair in an arc and let it fly from her hands, sending it crashing through the double French windows. "Yes! That's much better!" she said, dusting her hands together.

St. Just was completely shocked. He had never suspected for an instant that this woman could perform such an impulsive act. "You… you! The panes of those doors were leaded crystal! I had them imported from France! They were worth…"

"More than this?" Mike picked up a vase that was standing on a pedestal. She hefted it in a careless way. "It's heavy… must be expensive."

"No! Don't… I beg you," St. Just nearly sank to his knees. "_Si vous svp!_ Not the vase… it is seventeenth century Huguenot…_ irremplaçable!_"

"Yeah, well… so is Jack." Mike's lips curved in a smile as she thought of what Jack would say if he heard her talking like that.

To St. Just, who must have had little experience with true friendship, her smile appeared to be a cruel sneer. He rose to his full height—not too impressive as he was but a mere inch or two taller than Mike herself—and nervously smoothed the sleeves of his suit. "Let us not be hasty… obviously I've underestimated you, my dear—I mean… _mademoiselle_." He executed a short stiff bow. "Please put down the vase and let us talk like civilized human beings."

"Just as soon as I see my friend." Mike spun the vase on her palm, a trick she'd learned from an uncle who tended bar, back in Minnesota. "Then we can all talk together."

⌂

The helicopter rose into the air and sped out toward the open ocean. The route that DuGaul had set for his contacts to use required that they fly as if toward the Big Island and then drop down to the deck, cruising under radar surveillance as they came back toward Martinique in a big circle. The pilot followed this routine and DuGaul sat in the seat next to him, lost in thought.

The phone call had come from one of DuGaul's contacts in the marina, confirming that the man who called himself MacGyver had been seen the previous day in the company of another man and a woman… neither of which had been seen since. This news had aroused suspicions, that MacGyver was not someone who had been hired by St. Just not just to discover who had stolen the gold, but meant to replace DuGaul if it were not recovered.

DuGaul's attitude was such that he believed that even if his suspicion turned out to be true, St. Just's trust in him would be restored when he delivered MacGyver as a prisoner, proving his loyalty and capability. The gold would be recovered and the damages kept to a minimum… just two, possibly three eyewitnesses to eliminate and it would be back to business as usual.

Confident that he was on his way to a successful meeting, DuGaul looked lazily out through the transparent doors of the helicopter. The bay of Martinique was dotted with boats—not to be unexpected on such a clear, beautiful Caribbean afternoon—all over the natural harbor and far out into the ocean beyond the reefs. Looking down upon them, DuGaul was suffused with a feeling of superiority, as well as an aloof kind of satisfaction. The more traffic around the island, the more difficult it became for his smuggling operations to be noticed.

⌂

Below, scattered amid the flotsam and jetsam of the tourists and fishing boats, the sharp eyes of several special people noted the progress of the helicopter, reporting dutifully into their radios when it circled back toward the island.

A few minutes later yet another helicopter was reported, which appeared to be following the same flight path the first. This event triggered much commotion, like the rolling of the first snowball that leads to the great avalanche.

Ricky heard the reports. By triangulating the information on the direction of the 'choppers, he made a good guess as to where they were headed. He gathered his men and laid out his instructions to them. The air was full of tightly controlled excitement; the day had finally arrived, and all their months of watching and waiting were soon to be over.

⌂

Other ears heard the reports, even over the highly protected frequencies that the DEA and InterPol used to communicate. Profits on drug sales and smuggling operations depended upon top-notch intelligence, and the pirates that DuGaul had hired to move his merchandise could afford the very best equipment. Indeed, they could not afford NOT to have the very best, and so they intercepted the news and guessed where the infamous, unnamed drug lord must have his secret location, just as Ricky had done. But the intent of the pirates was not to capture this man and bring him to Justice, but to get the payment that they had been cheated of and to set an example that they were not to be trifled with in such a manner.

They were after more than gold… they wanted blood as well!


	13. Chapter 13 Off the Cuff, On the Fly

**Mac in Martinique, ch 13  
****Off the Cuff, on the Fly**

When they finally brought her friend into the room, Mike let out an audible sigh of relief. Jack appeared not to be hurt. The guard who had fetched him was holding a shotgun and smoking a long, thin cigar.

St. Just was wearing his leer again. Mike's arms were tired from holding the heavy crystal vase. When she saw Jack, she turned and she called out to him.

"Jack! Are you alright?" She hurried toward him, and St. Just plucked the priceless vase from her hands. A second guard caught Mike by the arms and kept her from running to her friend. Jack's guard put one hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving, chewing on his cigar and grinning.

"Now that we're all here," St. Just said, as he righted the vase on the pedestal again, adjusting it minutely until it was perfectly placed, "we can begin. A nice little drama you staged, my dear, but to no avail. I intended to reunite you with your partner after a brief interview. I think that you will be more forthcoming with the information that I want to hear if you can see your friend. Know that my man there will kill him in an instant if you do not cooperate."

Mike glared at him hatefully. "You'll get more answers if you actually ask questions."

"Quite." St. Just walked over to the windows that Mike had destroyed. "When you were apprehended trespassing on my estate, you were carrying a large quantity of gold coins. I would like to know where you found them."

Mike and Jack looked at each other. Jack shook his head slightly, and Mike gave him an exasperated glare.

St. Just watched this exchange with interest. He spoke again, his voice smooth and reasonable, "What good will it do for you to remain silent? I have both of you… I have the gold. I have the wide open sea to dispose of any evidence… what have you to lose by telling me what I want to know?" St. Just nodded at the guard who was holding Jack. The man prodded him with the gun menacingly.

"Hey!" Jack protested. He turned and waved a hand in front of his face, brushing aside the cigar smoke. "Do you mind? I don't mind the gun, but your cigar is killing me! Look, Mr. Saint Whatever…" Jack cast around in his mind, trying to think of something to get them out of trouble, "we'd really like to tell you what you want to know, but... but our boss would kill us if we talk!"

"Jack…" Mike hissed between her teeth, "What are you saying?"

"Look, Mike… it's no good playing dumb now," Jack said loudly, "we're dead if we don't talk. Maybe Mr. Juice will protect us if we tell him what we know."

Mike stared at Jack as if he were insane, then she noticed that his left eye was winking at her. She suddenly realized what he was trying to do. "Ah…" she murmured, playing along, "oh, Jack… we can't. If we tell... there's nowhere we could run to… nowhere we could hide that he wouldn't find us!"

"You see, sir… we work for the biggest crime boss in the Northern USA…"

"Jack! Shut up!" Mike begged.

"He sent us down here to make contact with one of his suppliers. We didn't know anything about the gold until we saw it yesterday… "

St. Just watched them both in bemusement. "You don't seriously expect me to believe this nonsense! I know the men who work in this market and none of them would dare come into my territory without permission."

"You don't know our boss," Jack said. "He's not afraid of anything or anyone! He makes the crime bosses in Chicago look like… like paperboys!"

At that moment, the sound of a helicopter approaching attracted everyone's attention. St. Just listened for a few seconds, a puzzled look growing across his face. He pointed to one of the guards—the one with the cigar—and said, "Hold them here and watch them!"

Mike and Jack were shoved together into the corner of the room in front of an old cannon; an antique gun built to fire eighteen pound cannonballs from the deck of a French frigate. Mike tripped over the corner of a brass fitting that had been attached to the floor, holding a number of round black cannonballs. Jack caught her before she could fall, and she clung to him. Their guard lifted the shotgun and continued to grin at them around his cigar, while St. Just and his other four henchmen hurried out of the room.

⌂

Though they were some miles out over the ocean, Mac got a marvelous view of a huge white house perched amid a tangle of jungle. He saw a perfect small crescent beach cradling a floating dock with a sport-fisher and a few smaller crafts moored. Above the beach perched a sprawling white house, enclosed upon both sides by thick trees. An island hideaway, apparently only accessible by air or sea, and—MacGyver was soon to learn—it was their destination.

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_We were taking an exciting ride, right down low over a beautiful expanse of blue-green water. The winds off of the Gulf were making the air choppy, causing the helicopter to shake frequently. The pilot was good, though. He kept us steady and under the radar, and in spite of the uncertainty and peril that awaited me at the end of this ride, I might have enjoyed the trip… but for the company I was keeping. _

_I was thinking about Jack and Mike. It had crossed my mind that they could have been captured by DuGaul's associates or maybe even the smugglers—who were probably pretty steamed about Jack making off with their gold. But worrying about them wasn't going to help right now. The best thing I could do for my friends was to get myself out of this situation alive. _

_DuGaul had taken the seat next to the pilot, leaving me in the back of the helicopter cabin with Jones. I was filled with questions I wanted to ask my undercover friend, but because of the noise of the chopper, I would have had to shout to make myself heard. Jones was beginning to look nervous, and I realized that he was on new ground now, too. This was the first time he had been taken along to meet 'the boss'—a moment he'd been waiting for, for a long time. _

_Unless, of course, that phone call had been somebody blowing his cover. I didn't really think so, 'cause if it had been, why bring him along now when he could have just shot him on the tarmac and hid his body in the grass? _

_Why am I worrying about _**him**_?! He's getting paid to work undercover—_**I'm**_ supposed to be on vacation! But I _was_ worried…'cause even though he'd roughed me up a little, he has also helped my friends escape the bungalow and he'd saved my life… or rather, given me a stay of execution. How much longer that would last was anybody's guess, but I was grateful. It gave me some time to try to think of a way out of this mess. _

_Time is hope, and when you've got hope, nothing is inevitable._

MacGyver began to look around for things that he could use. He felt around under his seat and came out with something. His movement attracted DuGaul's attention.

He turned in his seat and pointed the gun at Mac. "What are you doing?" DuGaul demanded.

"Um… I was feeling a little queasy," MacGyver answered, raising his voice so he could be heard. He held up the thing he had found under the seat; an airsick bag. "I hate heights," Mac offered him an embarrassed grin.

"First Chink… now you. Don't make a mess," DuGaul warned. He sat back in his seat, sighing with disgust.

Mac quickly opened the bag and inflated it. He motioned slightly to Jones—careful not to attract DuGaul's attention again—and pointed at the pocket where Jones had stashed the bullets taken from DuGaul's gun.

Nonplussed, Jones brought them out of his pocket. Sitting directly behind DuGaul, Mac knew that the man would not see the movement or what Jones was doing. The pilot could have, but he continued to look forward and ignored his passengers.

Mac pointed at the bag and made little motions of twisting and dumping. Jones finally realized what he wanted after the third time.

Nodding his head with understanding at last, he complied with MacGyver's request. Under his own seat, he found another airsick bag. He opened it, and using the pliers in the pocketknife that he had confiscated from Mac, he twisted off the lead from all the bullets and dumped the gun powder into the bag. He then passed the bag to Mac when he was done.

MacGyver took the bag and carefully pressed it flat and folded it closed, hiding it in the waistband of his jeans. Jones also gave him back the knife. MacGyver slipped it into his pocket, giving Jones a nod of thanks. The empty bag remained in Mac's lap. Mac had plans for it later. He gave out an occasional cough as if he were loosing his battle with airsickness.

DuGaul was so disgusted by the noises that he did not turn around once. The pilot continued to ignore them; he was focused on attempting to land the helicopter in the stiff off-shore breeze that was making their rides so bumpy.

They were descending now, landing onto an open space on the green lawn. The make-shift landing site was behind the house so that it could not be seen from the seaward approach.

_This is it,_ MacGyver thought. _It's almost_ S_howtime…_


	14. Chapter 14 Showtime

**Mac in Martinique, ch 14  
Showtime**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do with my make-shift firecracker, but having it made me feel a little better… a little less like I had no control over the situation. An illusion, yes, but sometimes the things that we imagine are closer to reality than what we can actually see._

_For example, when I looked through the transparent helicopter door, I could see four figures walking toward us; three men wearing black utility following the one dressed entirely in white. _

_A welcoming committee… or an execution squad?_

The helicopter settled gingerly between white-chalked markers. The thrum of the motor vibrated through MacGyver's body like a second pulse, and the blades loudly beat the air around his head as he exited the fuselage. Jones slid out after him and they hurried away from the helicopter in a slight crouch.

DuGaul exited on the opposite side of the helicopter and circled around in order to close on the other side of MacGyver. He walked coolly upright, ignoring the deadly blades that still whirred mere inches overhead. He still wore his evil smile and he took a firm grip on MacGyver's arm. He had to shout to make himself heard, "Now is the moment of truth, my slippery friend!"

There was nothing Mac could do but walk along with him. Jones was a step behind them, hoping that nobody noticed the sweat pouring from him and dampening his shirt. He laid one hand on MacGyver's other arm, but without the cruel pressure that DuGaul was exerting.

When Mac glanced back at him, Jones gave him a look that said, 'I hope you know what you're doing.' Mac let one eyelid close in a wink.

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_I had absolutely no idea what would happen next… but I wasn't going to let anyone in on that secret yet. I swallowed my anxiety and pressed on, the words of my grandfather Harry coming to me through the noise of the helicopter, doubled now as sound bounced off of the white buildings and back to us across the lawn:_

'_If you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, baffle 'em with bull--!'_

_Needless to say, Mom was __**not**__ around when he told me this!_

_But with these sage words echoing in my ears, I pretended for now that I knew what I was doing and schooled my expression away from panic and fear and prepared myself to dazzle or baffle as the situation dictated._

⌂

St. Just stood on the patio while the helicopter appeared over the house and descended.

Behind him, one of his men spoke, "Mr. St. Just… do you think that this man that DuGaul found is this big boss that those two were talking about?"

St. Just shrugged, shielding his cigarette from wind being whipped up by the helicopter. "Perhaps. DuGaul couldn't get anything out of him, and he is obviously more than just a troublemaker…" St. Just dropped the cigarette and absently stepped on it. "If he is from the US syndicate, then he is trespassing—but he could become valuable leverage to force our way into the US markets."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then he is dead… along with his friends _**and**_ that idiot DuGaul… for bringing them here."

⌂

The green span of grass dwindled as the two groups of men converged. Behind them, the helicopter's rotors began to slow as the engine wound down. The hard surfaces of the buildings and the concrete patio amplified the noise and threw it back, so that the men had to come very close in order to speak over the sound.

The man in white stood and regarded the three men; DuGaul with his demonic grin and Jones with his shirt stuck to his chest and back with sweat. MacGyver stood between them, wearing his sandy jeans and a 'borrowed' aloha shirt, with an expression of bemused tolerance on his tanned face.

"You must be the _l'homme grande_ from the United States," St. Just offered his hand to MacGyver. "It is no use to pretend,_ monsieur_… your employees have identified you to me."

Mac forced his hand to return the greeting with St. Just. His mind was racing: _'My employees?' He must mean Jack and Mike! Don't know for sure exactly what's going on… just go with the flow, Mac! _

"They told you about me already, huh? Well, I'm going to have to have words with those guys… my being here is _supposed_ to be a secret."

"Ah, but you cannot keep secrets from St. Just!" He thumped himself on the chest, "I have eyes and ears all over these islands. But let us go into the house and take refreshment. _Monsieur,_" St. Just motioned for him to proceed, "I welcome you to Martinique."

"Thanks," Mac answered simply, taking back his hand and tucking his thumbs into his jeans pockets in a bantam pose of confidence, "but your goon-squad here already gave me a real _warm_ welcome." Mac touched his bruised jaw, and then threw up his hand in a throw-away gesture. "That's business, though… right?"

DuGaul was standing where he had stopped when St. Just had begun to speak. A look of incredulous disbelief has struck the grin from his face. "Sir? You—_know_—this man?" He released Mac's elbow as if burned.

"David, you surprise me," St. Just said before he turned to escort his new guest toward the house, "you seem to forget that nothing goes on upon this island that escapes my notice. Now tell the pilot to shut down the helicopter and bring your man and yourself into the house."

"But sir, the pilot has already—" was all that DuGaul managed to say before everyone's attention was pulled skyward.

The helicopter in which they had arrived was already shut down; what they had been speaking over was the noise of another helicopter which had been hovering just out of sight beyond the trees. Now it roared into the open, bristling with gunnery and winking deadly in the sunlight. On the side of the craft, everyone could see 'D.E.A.' written in large white letters. At the same time, several men came running out of the trees, hunched over their automatic weapons and spreading out in a double-flanking maneuver.

St. Just gaped at them for a moment, and then he turned on DuGaul. "_**Fool!**_ You have brought them down upon us!"

"No! It was _him!_" DuGaul backed toward the house, his gun trained on MacGyver. "They followed _him_… they must have been tracking him all the time!"

"And_who_ brought him **here?**" St. Just snarled. He reached into his clean white jacket and drew his own gun. "Kill him, DuGaul! And then yourself as well! For if you yet live after this, I shall execute you myself!"

A message was issued loudly through the speakers mounted on the helicopter: "YOU ARE SURROUNDED… DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND PLACE YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"

St. Just's men began shooting at the DEA agents, who promptly dropped to the ground and returned fire. The helicopter swung around menacingly, holding back fire on the .50 caliber guns mounted below the fuselage.

DuGaul paused for a split-second, then began pulling the trigger on his gun. But instead of deadly sound, the gun only made click-click-clicking noises. Mac lunged toward DuGaul and delivered a roundhouse punch to the man's chin, putting so much momentum in the throw that he tumbled to the grass. DuGual went sprawling and did not get up.

Mac raised his head, judging the distance between himself and the house.

Jones dove down beside him on the ground. "Lie still," he hissed at MacGyver. "They won't shoot you if you're with me."

"Great! Come with me," breathed Mac. He gathered himself and sprang up, running toward the house.

Jones hesitated for a moment, then he followed, muttering, "Wait! What are you doing…"

"My friends are inside…" Mac danced aside as bullets began to tear up the patio surface. More men had come running from around the sides of the house… men who were **not **wearing D.E.A. uniforms and who were **not** holding their fire. "Yikes!"

"Get down!" Jones tackled MacGyver as more bullets rained around them, shattering the glass in the doors and windows of the house. "Mercenaries! Where the hell did they come from?"

"I don't know," gasped Mac, "but I got someplace to be." He began to crawl toward the house, praying that Mike and Jack were alright.


	15. 15: More Fun than a Barrel of Gunpowder

**Chapter 15**

**Mac's Voice-over:  
**_Bullets flying overhead, I'm crawling over shattered wood and shards of broken glass—and I'm thinking, _'Some vacation in the Caribbean **this** is turning out to be!'_ Right about now I'm wishing I was back home, sitting on a bank of snow and lacing up my skates, or sticking it out with some friends in a game of street-hockey—but I had friends right here who needed my help, and that thought kept me going. _

_I could hear Jones cursing as he crawled beside me. Apparently, this day wasn't going exactly how he had planned it either!_

**  
More Fun than a Barrel of Gunpowder**

Mac slithered through the doorway, ignoring the cuts he was collecting on his forearms and knees. There was little more protection to be had inside the house; designed to be comfortable in the tropical heat, the house had been built with wide windows and doorways, all of which were shattered by the continuing hail of bullets. Mac rolled to the right, Jones to the left, and both men hastened to close the hurricane shutters. It wouldn't keep the bullets out, but at least they couldn't easily be seen and targeted.

Jones leaned back against the solid panel of the storm-door, panting for breath, but MacGyver was already moving away, looking down hallways and checking rooms. Jones dragged himself upright to follow him. "Who are we looking for?"

"My friends… the ones you missed at the bungalow," Mac answered, shouldering a locked door. The paneling around the lock splintered with a crash, and he threw the door open; a storage closet.

At that moment, there came a shattering crash from a room further down the hallway, followed by a triumphant shout. MacGyver and Jones hurried toward the sounds and drew themselves up short in the doorway of the study.

There was a large man dressed in black lying on the floor in the center of a pool of crystal shards; a cigar still smoldering in his clenched teeth. Jack Dalton was busy wrestling away his weapons. Standing over the man's head, Mike Forester still held the jagged base of a heavy vase in her hands.

"That looks like it was once very expensive," Mac commented wryly.

When Mike saw MacGyver in the doorway, she tossed aside the broken vase and threw her arms around her friend's neck.

Jack had found some handcuffs in one of the man's pockets and used them. He looked up from his work with delight at his friend's arrival. "You know what they say, Mac: it's not the value that makes an object priceless—it's the sentiment!" He had an automatic rifle in his hands and a small handgun, as well as a combat knife which he tossed into the bulging backpack sagging on the floor. "And the timing! Ol' Chimney-chops here turned around to find out what all the fuss was about, and Mike figured she finish the redecorating." He plucked the cigar out of the still-unconscious man's mouth and tossed it into the fireplace, then he hefted the pack onto his back with a grunt.

Mac gave Mike a hug, "Good shot!"

"Can we please get out of here now?" Mike asked. She released Mac and stepped back, and Mac saw that, in spite of the dangerous situation they were all in, her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

Mac knew the feeling. It sounded insane, but…he was having **fun.**

"Yeah… leaving might be a bit of a problem," Jones said. He was standing near the window, glancing out at an angle to see what was happening; most of the action was toward the landside of the house, and little could be seen beyond the occasional mercenary smuggler running past toward the fight; there seemed to be an endless supply of them, pouring out of the sea. "Our team is taking a beating."

"_Our_ team?" Jack glanced from Jones to MacGyver. "Who's all on our team?"

"D.E.A., Coast Guard, and probably the A.T.F," Mac answered absently; he was wandering around the room, looking through the ruins of St. Just's mini-museum. "That's Jones over there…" Mac introduced Mike and Jack, then he resumed examining the cannon he found in the corner of the room. "These are my friends who got out with those krugerrands before you—" Suddenly Mac interrupted himself, his face illuminated. "That's it! Jack! Where are the coins?"

Jack clutched his backpack possessively.

Mike smiled; she knew that look. "Give it to him, Jack—he's got an idea. What do you need us to do, Mac?"

"I need… um, some fabric… a broomstick… and something that burns—" he patted himself down and found that he had not lost his little bag of gunpowder. "Perfect!" Quickly, he set about his task as Mike and Jack brought him the things he had asked for.

Jones was looking anxiously out the window, noting that while the numbers of men joining St. Just had leveled out, the group was retreating strategically past the house, heading no doubt for the boat that they had arrived in. St. Just stood out in the crowd in his ridiculous white suit, and he was shouting orders while firing his gun, reloading, and firing again. Stray bullets began to bite through the glass left in the windows, forcing those inside to duck down to avoid being hit.

Mac put his weight behind the cannon and began pushing it toward the window. Jones let his help, as did Jack, but with some reluctance. "Couldn't we use some other ammunition?" he asked piteously.

"My grandfather always said, _'Bud, if you want to catch the best fish, you got to use the best bait!'_" Mac retorted as he aimed the barrel of the cannon carefully. He blew on the stump of the cigar he had retrieved from the fireplace grate and then lowered it to the makeshift fuse he had improvised. The fuse began to burn. "Everyone get over to the far side of the room. You might want to cover yourselves… in case this blows up instead of out," he added in an off-and manner.

Jack and Mike hid behind a sturdy settee while Jones ducked down behind the desk. Mac stepped back behind the stonework surrounding the fireplace, where he could see.

The fuse burned quickly, and soon there was a great roar as it fired; the cannon rocketed backward as it went off, filling the room with acrid smoke but spewing a glittering payload of gold coins out over the heads of the mercenaries. Guns were forgotten as a wealth of gold fell among them like leprechaun rain. Mac could hear St. Just cursing the men while the gunfire from the DEA and ATF forces redoubled.

"Let's go!" Mac shouted. He led his friends toward the seaside of the house. As he had suspected, the boat was moored at the end of the private dock, one man pacing at the end of the pier while another stood in the cabin, ready to make an emergency exit.

Slowed down by the gold and gunfire, by the time the mercenaries and St. Just had retreated to the dock, there was nothing there but two unconscious men tied up with mooring cables, and the fading wake of their yacht lapping the sand. But by that time, they were out of ammunition and out of luck.


	16. Epilogue: Worth A Thousand Words

**Mac in Martinique: Epilogue**

**Worth A Thousand Words**

"Just tell me."

"I don't… I said I don't! Why won't you believe me?" Twitch, twitch.

"The eye, Jack… Mac isn't the only one who knows your tells."

"Dammit!" Jack clapped on hand over his left eye. "It's this salt air… you know, too much of it is not a good thing! I think I'm developing an allergy."

"Yeah… whatever." Mike shifted her feet; she was leaning against one of the pilings which anchored the floating dock where their sea-plane was preparing to depart. "You know you're not going to be able to get on that plane with those coins."

_"I don't have any coins!"_ Jack whispered hoarsely. "And could we please not discuss this so loudly? Do you want to check my pockets? Go ahead… frisk me! You're just dying to get your hands on this beautifully-tanned, manly bod, anyway!"

"No thanks." Mike couldn't keep the grin off of her face; Jack always could make her laugh away her doubts and troubles. "I wonder what's keeping Mac… I don't think that they'll be willing to hold the plane for him."

"They'll hold it… the pilot's a friend of Jones'." Jack shrugged. "DEA's footing the bill for our flight, so where else does he have to be?"

"And I wonder how Mac managed to talk them into arranging this? I figured they'd insist on us going back home… not give us a free flight across the Atlantic Ocean!"

"Oh, I'm sure that our government is sufficiently embarrassed that the biggest drug dealer in the Caribbean was brought down—not by the DEA or the ATF—but three American heroes—" Jack made a ridiculous little bow, "—with the help of a 150 year old cannon and a fancy French flower-holder! It is a one-way ticket, after all! I'm sure that they'll be just as happy to have us out from underfoot for a while… and out of the spotlight."

"Suits me," MacGyver said as he joined his friends. He had finally discarded the borrowed Hawaiian shirt and was now wearing a black t-shirt, both of his forearms wrapped in gauze bandages; he had suffered some nasty cuts from crawling through all that broken glass, and the medic who had taken care of him had figured it would be easier to wrap him than to cover him with dozens of little pink Band-Aids.

Mike resisted another urge to throw her arms around him. _'Time to play it cool, Mike,' _she chided herself, and she offered MacGyver a winning smile and held up one arm, twisting it to display her wristwatch.

Mac spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Hey. _**I**_ hurried—they were the ones who wanted to talk." Mac glanced around the dock, which was conspicuously empty of baggage. "Where's all our stuff? Didn't Jones find our luggage?"

"Yeah, they found all of our stuff and it is already on the plane," Jack said, a little too quickly. Mac and Mike exchanged glances. "C'mon! Let's go! We're burning daylight!" As if to answer Jack's impatience, that was the moment the pilot of the sea-plane chose to begin the pre-flight warm-up; both engines coughed and the propellers spun to life, tossing wash high into the humid tropical air. "Next stop: Lisbon, Madrid, and Barbados!" Unable to wait any longer, Jack bounded down the pier and climbed into the plane.

Mike started to follow him, but MacGyver touched her arm to stop her and handed her something.

Mike stared at it. "What a great picture! When was this taken?"

"The day before we went diving… one of the local women runs a photo-service on the pier, for the tourists. She gave it to me… and I thought that you'd like it. I got one for Jack, too."

"I love it, Mac! Thanks!" She gave into an impulse and kissed him quick on the cheek, then ran down the pier after Jack.

Mac followed her, enjoying a last beautiful view of Martinique before he and his friends traveled on toward future adventures.

_fin!_

_Thanks for joining me in this adventure, and for all your support and comments!  
More adventures with MacGyver are on the way!_

_-Lothithil_


End file.
